The Gift of Ilúvatar
by Caitlinlaurie
Summary: Love survives past death and stretches across dimensions. Death was her gift, and she was always marching towards Glory's tower. However, as slight mistranslation during the Spirit Quest, opens a whole new path to Buffy, and leads to places she only could have dreamed of. First in my Echoes of Númenor series.
1. Prologue

**Title:** The Gift of Ilúvatar

**Author:** Caitlinlaurie

**Rating:** T, for some Dark Themes

**Fandom:** Buffy/LOTR

**Summary:** Love survives past death and stretches across dimensions. Death was her gift, and she was always marching towards Glory's tower. However, as slight mistranslation during the Spirit Quest, opens a whole new path to Buffy, and leads to places she only could have dreamed of.

**Warnings/Notes:** This is a reexamination of the last five episodes of Buffy with a few twists. As such, much canon dialogue is used to set the scene. I try to stick faithfully to Buffy canon, and to LOTRs canon history. My intention is simply to add to things not mentioned, or described. There is a major non-canon _Silmarillion_ pairing which is part of the story. I try to be as faithful as possible to the history, themes, and intent of Tolkien's work. I used the first five seasons of Buffy for references (especially the last five episodes of Season Five), and _the Hobbit_, _the Trilogy_ (and the Appendices),_ the Silmarillion_, _the Unfinished Tales_, _the Lays of Beleriand_, and _the Peoples of Middle-earth_. This story is completely written, and this is a posting in progress.

**Disclaimer:** All BTVS characters and their canon histories are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. All LOTRs characters and their canon histories are the property of the Tolkien Estate.

* * *

_To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,  
The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.  
West, west away, the round sun is falling.  
Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,  
The voices of my people that have gone before me?_

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Field of Cormallen, The Return of the King_

* * *

Prologue

Giles should have read the diaries closer. Or, at least the incantation in detail. The actual translation was not Vision Quest, but rather the Quest for a Vision. It wasn't his fault, not truly. While Giles was amazingly talented in Sumerian, Latin, Greek, and endless other languages, Swahili wasn't one of them. And really, after reading that the ritual had been used for other slayers when they were lost, it was an easy assumption to make that it would help Buffy in her time of doubt. Only those other slayers had used it when they had been confronted with soul-sucking demons, or spirit-absorbing wraiths.

It was, at its essence, a search for your lost soul. The Quest was meant to summon the missing piece of the slayer, and return it. In some slayers, it manifested as guidance needed to reconnect with their core of being, in others it provided missing memories to give the lost slayer a link to her missing soul. In theory, since Buffy's soul wasn't missing, the chanting and the gourd shaking should have done nothing. Perhaps it might have shown her vision that was basically a reflection of her own precognitive abilities, but it would have still been essentially Buffy doing the work. No outside intervention. But Buffy was different from all previous slayers who had used the Quest.

She was special, even among the special ones, something all people who came into contact with her sensed, but were never able to truly understand.

They had never meant for her life to get so complicated. The Powers, that is. They had only wanted her to learn all that they had been required to teach her before sending her home. Sometimes, the High Sister rued the day she and her Brother had ever taken the charge of that lost soul.

It had started out so simple.

The Valar had asked, more like ordered, the lower beings of a lesser dimension—The Powers That Be—to guard and guide a soul that needed to grow and change before it could be returned home to its own dimension. The Powers knew that growth could not be secured with a simple, ordinary destiny and so Buffy Summers, Potential, had been born.

It seemed almost certain that she would become the Slayer, and soon after her fifteenth birthday, she did. The Powers That Be had watched with delighted joy as the Slayer had faced her tasks and completed them with ingenuity and grace. That once weak and fearful soul became strong, out of necessity but also wisdom. They were surprised, of course, when she fell in love with the vampire, but that had always been her true flaw, she loved too deeply and too well, if not wisely.

Yet still, the High Sister and the High Brother had watched with tempered awe at the depth of love the young Slayer was able to feel. She loved those who were lost, those who were weak, and those who simply needed it. Even when a monster wore her lover's face, she had loved more blindingly than the brightest fire.

Part of that love was a searching love.

It wasn't Buffy Summers' fault, not really.

But deep down, she could sense that she did not belong. That she was separate, apart. And subconsciously, she knew that she could never truly love the men she took to her bed. She knew not why, and probably would have scoffed if she had been told it was because she had long since loved another. But that love was there, in the depths of her soul, affecting all her decisions. When she loved the vampire, she saw in him her lost love's belief. When she loved the solider, she saw in him her lost love's kindness. His name was hidden from her, but he stopped her from letting in men too close.

The Powers were fascinated by her, even if sometimes frustrated by the headaches and pains she caused. Most lower beings were like uninteresting bugs, worth nothing more than the dirt underfoot. But the Slayer, oh, she had potential. Her soul radiated with goodness and power, love and light. She always fought for the good, but in that dedication there was something else as well. A selflessness, one that caused her to be hurt over and over.

They had been told that she was being sent to their dimension as a type of purgatory. Until she learned and grew from her previous mistakes, she could not come home to her own dimension. In her home dimension, she had been too passive. She had been the victim, and she had not fought for those who depended on her. It was only when the one she loved was threatened that she finally was able to summon some spirit of defiance. But by then, her actions had been too small and the doom of her people and home had already been ordained. Still though, she had in her last moments a chance to accept her fate and be forgiven for her wrongs. But she had not taken it. Her last moments were ones of useless flight and the desperate wish to hold off death.

She hadn't learned at all.

But still, the Valar knew truly the importance of the soul, and even more importantly, the importance of her to her soul mate. It was a horrible thing to split up united _fëar_, and to not have them be born together. Buffy felt some of that now. While she was confused at her inability to connect to men, she hadn't yet become desperate, which she would if she was cut off from her soul mate much longer.

The Valar had loved her when she was of their sphere. Though she was born to the Men of Westernesse too late, she was still a wonder to behold. The Golden Lady of Armenelos, the most beautiful jewel of Númenor, who was guarded and blessed by everyone in the realm. When she was young, her happiness had been the people's happiness, and they had been thrilled to see her walking the streets of The City of Kings, or framed in the windows of the King's House.

But despite her beauty and joyous personality, she was weak. And when she died, the Valar knew that for her to be reborn to retake her rightful place, she must first learn from her mistakes.

She must first become strong.

So they sent her to a lower dimension's guardians, and now the Powers were going to take advantage of an Englishman's mistake. It was a Quest for a Vision, not a Vision Quest. But if she wanted a vision, they would give her one. Or several.

The Powers were nothing if not opportunists. And visions could be in the form of memories too…

After all, they were her own memories anyway.

Yes, Rupert Giles should have paid better attention to his Swahili. But, perhaps it was a good thing he had taken that course around the time of his descent into Ripper. He had meant to help his Slayer regain her focus, but he did her one better.

He set her free.


	2. Chapter One

_I sit beside the fire and think  
of people long ago,  
and people who will see a world  
that I shall never know._

_But all the while I sit and think_  
_Of times there were before,_  
_I listen for returning feet_  
_And voices at the door._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Ring Goes South, The Fellowship of the Ring_

* * *

**Chapter One**

The coolness of the April day was easily felt in the air. Rupert Giles wished, not for the first time, that the sacred place to which he had to take his Slayer was indoors. Of course, that would completely negate his Slayer's connection to the elements and the Quest itself, but still, it was worth fantasizing about. Though what he really wanted was for Buffy to find what she was looking for. She had been through so much lately, too much. Her mother had died, and then she had been given custody of her sister, a mystical Key in human form, who she was already sworn to protect from Glory the Hellgod.

Buffy had been, needless to say, distracted of late.

Truly, the whole thing had perfectly illustrated the reason why many Potentials were taken from their families and handed over to the care of a Watcher. Families were a distraction. They were often messy, and the bonds of them could be devastating if broken. Certainly not what his Slayer needed with the specter of Glory hanging over her head.

Yet, for all the so-called wisdom of the Council's way, Giles knew that Buffy would be able to find her way back and be herself again if she could just get some focus. It was what this trip, this Quest, was meant to accomplish, and Giles could only hope that it would be successful. There was a saying that the Watcher's Academy had been fond of: a distracted Slayer is a dead Slayer.

Giles just hoped that Buffy was the exception which disproved the rule.

With a sigh, Giles blew sand from the book, which seemed to have gathered just over the incantation he needed, the one meant to transfer his guardianship of the Slayer over to her Spirit Guide. With any luck, it would work successfully and the totem would appear to Buffy and guide her on her way.

Looking at the writing before him, the Englishman tried not to grimace at the Swahili transcribed there. Bloody hell, he had always been shite at Swahili. With a deep breath, he cast aside his insecurities and began to speak.

* * *

_"That which I am pledged to guard and guide, I hand over to you. Lead her to a place of safety and learning. Give her that which she needs. Show her the path…"_

* * *

It seemed like she had wandered for hours. The sun had certainly changed positions in the sky, and it had been necessary for Buffy to button her coat and jam her hands into the pockets to keep them warm. It was unseasonably cool for April, especially April in California. She was trying to keep her mind clear and focused, but it wasn't easy when it felt as though half of her brain was back in Sunnydale worrying about Dawn.

Buffy walked along aimlessly, not knowing what she was looking or waiting for, when suddenly she saw a mountain lion, but she could sense that it was just an illusion. The predator in her didn't rise up, and there was no natural human fear at the sight. Only peace. It seemed her totem had arrived.

"Hello, kitty," she said softly.

The mountain lion didn't stop; it merely kept on walking past her, descending into the valley of the desert below. Buffy could certainly take a hint and, in measured steps, she followed after.

The cat-but-not-a-cat led her deep into the desert. Several hours passed and dusk finally approached, yet Buffy felt no frustration or fear. She supposed that the Quest was already working its mojo, because she hadn't felt this calm since…well, she couldn't actually remember how long. Before her mother had died, certainly.

Taking deep breaths, she enjoyed the fresh air that tasted much cleaner than in Sunnydale. She supposed that being in nature must be soothing to her inner Slayer. As she and Giles had trained so extensively this year, she had come to truly understand and appreciate the Slayer within. The Council might see it as a tool, and her friends as a protector, but Buffy saw her inner Slayer as a friend. A wildness so inextricably bound with her own soul that she never wished to be apart from it. It was feral, it was primal, and it was hers.

So deep was she in her own thoughts that she almost missed noticing the totem dissipating into nothingness. Buffy supposed she must have reached her destination. Walking over to a large rock, she sat down and looked out at the expanse below. Echoes of familiarity teased at her mind, and Buffy was certain she had been there before.

"I know this place," she said softly to herself. Her confusion was mounting, but as Buffy tried to search for the explanation as to where she had seen the desert before, the tendrils slipped from her grasp and left her with nothing but questions.

* * *

The cold was getting to her. She had wrapped herself up as tightly as she could, but the damp was starting to seep into her bones. Buffy was beginning to get tired, and she found herself nodding off several times.

The blonde Slayer had no idea where her Guide was, but they sure were tardy. Yeah, spirits probably weren't all that concerned about time and stuff, but she was. Come on, they had summoned them already! Generally, that meant someone needed to speak to them as soon as possible. It wasn't like the Guide had a backlog of Slayers it needed to get through and she had to wait her turn.

Against her will, Buffy felt her traitorous eyes began to lower and she could no longer fight the call of sleep.

* * *

Buffy felt herself jerk awake and sat up with a start. There was a roaring fire before her, suddenly she wasn't cold anymore, and all vestiges of fatigue had fled. "Hello? Who's there?"

Across the flames, she could see a face, a _familiar_, face. She knew her. "I know you. You're the first Slayer."

It was her, all right. She even had the dreads and the bad face makeup.

"This is a form," she said in perfect English, which Buffy dimly thought she should not have been able to speak. "I am the Guide."

She understood then. This was merely the face it was borrowing to talk to her. Buffy sighed. She would have found it more comforting had the Guide chosen the face of someone who hadn't tried to kill her. Though that was probably a small pool.

Buffy suddenly connected the presence of the First Slayer with the desert she was in. She felt like an idiot. This had been where the First Slayer brought her in her dream. Before she had tried to kill her, that is.

With a desire to get answers, Buffy pushed those thoughts aside and said, "I have a few questions…about being the Slayer. What about…love? Not just boyfriend love."

"You think you're losing your ability to love," the Guide stated.

"I-I didn't say that," Buffy protested. She then sighed and looked down. She bet that mind reading was a part of this somehow. "Yeah."

"You're afraid that being the Slayer means losing your humanity," the Guide stated again.

"Does it?" Buffy asked.

"You are full of love. You love with all of your soul. It's brighter than the fire ... blinding. _That's_why you pull away from it."

"I'm full of love? I'm not losing it?" she asked with palpable surprise. Buffy felt relief so immense it nearly choked her. All her doubts, all her fears, they were nothing now.

"Only if you reject it," the Guide answered, swaying back and forth. "Love is pain, and the Slayer forges strength from pain. Love…give…forgive. Risk the pain. It is your nature. Love will bring you to your gift."

"What?" Buffy titled her head to the side. Of course, the Guide had to speak in riddles. And just when she was appreciating the straightforward answers too. With an annoyed sigh, she asked, "I'm sorry, I, I'm just a little confused. I'm full of love, which is nice, and…love will lead me to my gift?"

"Yes," the Guide said, elaborating no further.

"I'm getting a gift?" Buffy asked. "Or, or do you mean that, that I have a gift to give to someone else?"

"Death is your gift."

Buffy felt her blood run cold. "Death ..."

"…is your gift," the Spirit repeated.

The words felt strangely familiar, as if she had heard them before, much like she had when Dracula had said to her, _You think you know, who you are, what's to come. You haven't even begun._Those words had felt like echoes or déjà vu, and these words felt the same. This was something she knew, yet every feeling within her rebelled at the knowledge.

"Okay, no," she said, looking the Guide straight in the eye. "Death is not a gift. My mother just died. I know this. If I have to kill demons because it makes the world a better place, then I kill demons, but it's not a gift to anybody."

"Why do you fight that which you already know?" the Spirit asked. "You push back, yet your heart accepts it."

"You're wrong," Buffy said. "Death is what took my mother, and death is what has been chasing me since the moment I was Called. There is nothing gift-like about it."

"Then it will lead to your downfall." The Guide then whispered a word Buffy didn't understand, but it filled her with dread. "_Akallabêth_. The more you fight it, the more certain is your pain."

"Death is pain!" Buffy exclaimed, glaring. "Me fighting it is not me embracing pain—or forging strength from it, whatever!—but wanting to avoid it. I'm not a masochist."

"Much time has passed, and yet you still do not understand, Golden one."

"My name is Buffy," the Slayer stated, confused. "And death is not a gift, not for me anyway."

The fire began to fade before her eyes, leaving behind only the disembodied voice of the Guide which stated, "Your question has been answered."

Once she was gone, and Buffy was left in the darkness, all she could say was, "What the hell?"

* * *

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Buffy looked away from the obscurity of the desert scenery, and over at the man driving the car. Even in the darkness, she could see his face lit by the lights of the dashboard. The shadows of night gave his face an ominous cast, but Buffy didn't see that. Her mind was preoccupied by what had transpired during the Quest.

"I'm fine," Buffy said.

"You haven't said much," Giles commented. "Did you get your questions answered?"

"Somewhat, I guess." Buffy said. "According to the Guide, I'm full of love."

"That's good, isn't it?" Giles asked cautiously. "You were so worried before we left. You thought being a Slayer meant being too hard to love."

"I just…" Buffy trailed off, thinking about what she wanted to say. How could she explain to Giles about the complexities of what she was feeling? "I guess I sort of went out there with certain expectations. I thought the Guide was going to agree that I was becoming stone-like, but tell me something like it was marble, not concrete, and isn't that better? I wasn't prepared for the Spirit Guide to say the opposite."

"I was," Giles said idly.

"What?"

"Buffy, you must understand, I haven't seen any of the coldness or hardness that you described to me. You, of course, would know best as to how you are feeling, but I did think that your concerns would turn out to be for naught. I have ever been surprised and stunned by your deep capacity for love…and forgiveness. I could never see you as anything emotionless."

Buffy sighed. "She said…she said that the love I had within me is blinding…brighter than fire…that is why I pull away from it. So how do I stop myself from doing that?"

"I suppose the question you have to ask yourself," Giles said thoughtfully, "is what is it that you think you fear? _Why_do you think you pull away?"

_Death is your gift._

"I don't know," Buffy said quietly, trying to push the Spirit Guide's words from her thoughts.

"Did the Guide say anything else?"

"Nothing worth mentioning."

* * *

_"'Cause Buffy ... the other, not so pleasant Buffy ... anything happened to Dawn, it'd destroy her. I couldn't live, her bein' in that much pain. I'd let Glory kill me first. Nearly bloody did."_

The words repeated over and over in her mind as she readied herself for bed. When was the last time a man had loved her like that? Had any ever? It was hard sometimes to see through the wreckage that Riley and Angel had left behind. Rationally, she knew that Angel had loved her and would have died for her, but thinking about that made her think of his walking away and the pain that followed.

And Riley…well, her feelings for him were all confused. He had left because she was shut down, but there was a big part of her that resented him for that. But now, she wondered if she hadn't been wrong all along. Xander's words on the fateful night had twisted and festered within her until all that was left was self-loathing. But maybe, maybe she wasn't to blame. She certainly wasn't shut down. She was full of love and it was blinding.

So said the Spirit Guide.

Okay, after further thought, that whole death thing was confusing, but Buffy was certain that she just didn't understand that part yet. It would probably make sense once some time had passed. But the love part…she was full of love, and Giles agreed. And if Riley didn't feel it from her, that really wasn't her fault. The Spirit Guide had told her to forgive, and she was right. She had to forgive herself for being imperfect, and she had to forgive Riley for not being the right man.

Just hearing how Spike thought of her and the lengths he would go to so that Dawn was safe…she might not ever be able to love him, but he certainly had her gratitude. And to be loved in such a way, even by a vampire…well, it gave her hope that one day she would be loved once again by someone whose love she could return.

Pulling back the covers, Buffy rested her head on her pillow and slipped off to sleep, not realizing she was about to be welcomed into the embrace of long forgotten memories.

* * *

_3175, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

"My lady? Are you finished?"

"Very nearly, Alquamírë," was the answer the servant received from inside the bathing chamber.

Turning away from the door behind which stood her maid, Míriel, the daughter of Tar-Palantir, newly vested King of Númenor, looked out the window of the bathing room and down at the city of Armenelos below.

The City of Kings was the largest metropolis on the sacred isle, housing the vast majority of Númenor's population. It had been founded after the War of Wrath, and each generation of Kings and subjects had added to it until it was glimmering beacon it had become today. Endless homes, markets, streets, bathhouses, theatres, and pavilions all decorated the grasslands and the low hills, leading up to the King's House, the royal palace, which had housed her family for more than twenty generations. And it was at the window of her bathing chamber in that very palace which she now stood.

"My lady, I have been sent to help you dress for the presentation," Alquamírë called from Míriel's bedroom.

"Oh, yes," Míriel said, stepping away from the window and exiting the bathroom. As she dried off, she asked, "Did my father say who…?"

"'Tis Amandil, son of Nùmendil, my lady. He is bringing his son, Elendil, to Court as well, so that he might train to be one of the King's advisors."

"As all of the Lords of Andúnië are," Míriel finished thoughtfully. The Lords of Andúnië were the highest in honor and birth after the Royal house on Númenor, as they were descended from the distaff line of the fourth King of Númenor, over two thousand years before. Tar-Elendil, that same fourth king, had a daughter Silmarien. It was from her the Lords of Andúnië were begot, and in the generations to follow they had always been kept close to the Kings and valued for their wisdom, at least until the Kings of Númenor had started to forsake the Elves and the Valar. Her grandfather Ar-Gimilzôr had been the only King to actually dismiss the council of the Lords of Andúnië, and not recall them to Court when he took the Sceptre.

But it was all changed now.

Míriel's father was now King, and he marked the beginning of the rise of the Elf-friends again. The Faithful, they were called. They had been tormented in years past, but could now live in peace once more. And the Lords of Andúnië had ever been beloved of her father, so now they were welcomed back to Court with near-royal honors. Still, Míriel had not expected Amandil and his son to come immediately to Court. The more common tradition was for a representative to be sent first to open negotiations. Míriel supposed her father had been busy in secret before he took the throne.

After Alquamírë helped her into her gown and did her hair, plaiting pieces of it and framing it with a mithril diadem, the King's daughter stood in front of the looking glass and observed her reflection. Though she was called fair, and by many described as the Jewel of Númenor, Míriel did not see it. She was much too short, and her nose had a stubbornness about it that was not at all in fashion. But her hair was a lovely golden—she was the first royal heir to have golden hair since the days of Aldarion the Mariner (though her cousin Calion had golden hair as well, but he was not the King's heir)—and her eyes a sparkling grey. But as of yet, there had been no suitors.

It was not dire, and it was certainly not something to fret over. After all, she was only sixty, and people would not start commenting until she reached her hundredth year and her formal declaration as the King's heir unwed, but she couldn't help but worry. As with all women of the Royal house, she had been sheltered from the time she was an infant. It was rare for royal children to mix, even for schooling, and as a result she had no friends save for her loyal maid, Alquamírë. How then was she to have a suitor if she did not move freely among the courtiers?

Surrounded by nursemaids, then tutors, then music and lore masters, she had always been aware that they were her paid subordinates, not her friends. Now that her father was King, she would soon be assigned ladies in waiting as well from the noble houses, and she certainly knew she couldn't look for a friend among them, all of them being at Court to raise their families honor and prestige first, serve the King second.

What she wanted more than anything was someone to talk to. And, if she couldn't have a suitor, she at least wanted a friend. She just hoped that when her father arranged her marriage, as was becoming more and more likely, that he chose a kind man. She couldn't bear it if she was married to someone like her Uncle Gimilkhâd—a colder, prouder man there had never been.

"Are you ready, my lady?"

"Yes, Alquamírë," Míriel said with a sigh. "I am ready."

The lady and her servant left the wing of the palace which housed the family rooms and moved towards the throne room, called Tar-Minyatur's Hall. When they entered that royal colonnade, they silently moved towards the gilded throne set on a dais where her father sat, Alquamírë three steps behind her, as Míriel gracefully moved among the courtiers with ease. Most of them nodded and bowed to her, smiling at the sight of the Fair Lady of Armenelos.

Only one stopped her, and the sight of him made her grin. "Well met, fair one."

Míriel grinned at the sight of her cousin, who had been missing from the capitol for several weeks. "Calion! When did you return?"

"Even now, dearest. Who did you think was escorting the Lord of Andúnië and his retinue to Uncle Inziladûn's court? Besides, Amandil is an old friend and I was happy to have cause to go out to Andúnië to collect him."

"You shouldn't call my father that," Míriel said to her cousin, looking nervously around. "The King's name is Tar-Palantir now."

"Oh, yes," Calion said sarcastically, "I forgot we are to become elf-worshippers again."

"Calion!" Míriel hissed.

"Easy, cousin," he laughed. "You are so easy to tease. My father is coming. You better head up to the dais if you wish to avoid him."

Indeed Míriel wished to do just that, for she was quite afraid of her Uncle Gimilkhâd. He was her father's younger brother, and leader of the King's Men, but he had nothing of her father's warmth and gentleness. Quickly, she asked, "Shall I see you after?"

"Perhaps," Calion replied, "but at the celebration only. I leave with the fleet for Arda within the week, and I do not imagine I shall be back on Númenor for some time."

"Off to seek your fortune?" Míriel asked with a playful smile.

"And adventure," her cousin answered with a wink.

With a saucy curtsey, Míriel turned from Calion, not noticing the wistful look upon his face as she walked away and ascended the dais to stand by her father's throne, while Alquamírë took her place by the far wall with some of the other servants.

"_Mára tuilë_, _atarinya_," Míriel said to her father, wishing him a good morning in Quenya. All of the Faithful had given a collective sigh of relief when her father had lifted the ban on speaking the elven languages, and it was a pleasure to be able to converse in them openly.

"_Mára tuilë_, _yelya_," he returned, kissing the back of her hand and helping her up the last step so that she might stand by his side. "You look beautiful today, my little one. The most beautiful gem in Armenelos."

Míriel smiled, taking her place to his right as lady of his house. In all rights, the spot in which she stood should belong to her mother, but she had died in childbirth along with a stillborn brother when Míriel was thirteen. Everyone had encouraged her father to marry again, from the King his father, to the Queen his mother, to all the members of the Court. After all, no one really wanted Míriel to ascend the throne after her father, as Ruling Queens were always problematic. (Since she was first born, the throne would be hers, but as with most Ruling Queens, the nobles would feel better if she had a younger brother ready to stand in her place, or rule in her stead should she prove weak.) But Míriel thought her father was most like to the elves in the way he loved. It was only once, and for always, even with the parting of death. And it was only the love which he bore for his only daughter and heir that allowed her to stand in her mother's place now.

The crier at the door chose that moment to execute his office, announcing, "Presenting Amandil, son of Nùmendil, Lord of Andúnië, and Elendil, son of Amandil."

The heavy iron doors at the back of the throne room then swung open, revealing two tall men who made their way down the center aisle of the room as the courtiers parted to allow them to pass. Míriel's eyes first fell on Amandil, who she remembered from his few trips to the King's House when she was a child, before his family had fallen out of favor. He had always been very kind to her, and often gave her sweetmeats and told her tales from his time as a sea captain.  
Amandil looked much like any Númenórean nearing middle years, and Míriel guessed his age to be near a hundred or a decade or so over. He was tall, with pitch dark hair and kind grey eyes. Míriel smiled at him with a light heart, glad that her father was now King and a kind man like Amandil was welcomed at Court once more.

Her gaze then shifted to the man at his side, and Míriel was at once arrested.

His son, Elendil, was the most handsome man she had ever seen…and the tallest too. He towered over every other man in Tar-Minyatur's Hall, but his open face prevented him from being forbidding. His hair was a rich sable, falling over his brow in graceful waves. He had noble features and his eyes shined like mithril. Of his years she could not say, though the King's daughter thought him to be around her own age of sixty and certainly no older. He was in the prime of youth, and his years as a sea captain and mariner, like his father before him, were evident in his broad shoulders and strong arms that gracefully filled out his formal robes. Míriel was struck in that moment by the force of his beauty, and she felt slightly light-headed as she watched Elendil, son of Amandil, approach her father's throne.

"Lord Amandil! It lifts my heart to see you well," her father said, his voice carrying to the entire Court. "Our halls have been the lesser for your absence, but I know Andúnië has been the brighter for it."

"My King," Amandil said, bowing. "_Elen síla lumenn'omentielvo_." Míriel was certain she saw a measure of joy in the face of the Lord of Andúnië at being able to speak the elven languages aloud once more.

Tar-Palantir laughed and repeated. "_Elen síla lumenn'omentielvo_! A star shines at the hour of our meeting, indeed, my friend. You are very welcome."

"I thank you, Tar-Palantir the Wise," Amandil said, bowing again. "May I introduce my son?"

"You may."

"This is Elendil, mariner, and son of Andúnië."

"You are very welcome, Elendil of the house of Valandil," Tar-Palantir announced.

"My King," Elendil said bowing. The sound of his voice sent shivers down Míriel's spine.

"Míriel," her father said, pulling her suddenly from her thoughts. "You remember Lord Amandil, I am certain, and this is Elendil, son of Amandil."

As she descended from the dais, Míriel the Fair could have sworn that all of Armenelos could hear her heart nearly beating out of her chest. Her knees were weak and she felt a sheen of moisture gather on the back of her neck. Once she stepped off the last step, curtseyed to Amandil and greeted him, and then she extended her hand to Elendil, looking up the long distance to his face.

His eyes ensnared hers.

"Fair Míriel, brightest jewel of Númenor, I am honored," the young sea captain, Elendil the Tall, murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of her knuckles, as was tradition.

The moment the son of Amandil kissed her skin, Míriel felt as though her entire world had shifted. And standing there, in the shade of the pillars of Tar-Minyatur's Hall, Míriel, daughter of the King, felt the first stirrings of destiny.


	3. Chapter Two

_In western lands beneath the Sun  
the flowers may rise in Spring,  
the trees may bud, the waters run,  
the merry finches sing.  
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night  
and swaying beeches bear  
the Elven-stars as jewels white  
amid their branching hair._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Tower of Cirith Ungol, The Return of the King_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Buffy woke with a start. For a moment her mind was still in Númenor, and she looked blankly around her room, wondering where she was. Then, with a rush, it all came flooding back and she gasped at the intensity of the dream. She had dreamed she was a princess, yet she wasn't called that, and there had been a palace, and a throne, and a man. Buffy gasped again as she remembered meeting that man.

_Elendil_, her mind whispered to her. Elendil, son of Amandil. Yes, Buffy remembered all that. The question was, why? Was this a Slayer prophecy? Was there a princess in another dimension in trouble? And it had to be another dimension, because they had looked like they were in Roman times and Medieval times all at once, and Buffy, while no expert on history, had never heard of the island Númenor. And though they hadn't been speaking English, Buffy had understood them perfectly.

The princess had seemed so familiar somehow, as if Buffy had known her for years. Her father and cousin had given off that feeling too, like their destinies were wrapped up with Buffy's own. And Elendil…he set off a need in her, not exactly sexual, though he was desirable, but like he was the solution to a riddle she didn't even know she was trying to answer.

But most startling of all, the face she wore was Buffy's own. How was it that some woman in a different dimension had her face? Was she an alternate Buffy, like Willow's doppelganger? Or were there only a finite number of faces in any dimension, and this girl just happened to share hers?

Buffy knew she would find no answers to her questions at the moment, and resolved to talk to Giles in the morning. Settling back down, the Slayer closed her eyes once more and began to dream again.

* * *

_3175, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

The tiles of the palace were cool under Míriel's sandaled feet as she walked from the archives back to her quarters. Alquamírë was a few steps behind her as always, ready to come forward if her mistress needed anything. Míriel sighed. It had been three months now since her father's coronation, and she felt more stifled than ever. With every eye on the palace, she hadn't been able to escape in the mornings for her ride, and had been forced to content herself with a plodding trot in the afternoon around the practice rings with Alquamírë accompanying her.

So lost was she in her thoughts, that she did not notice Elendil until she was almost in front of him. "Oh, forgive me, Lord Elendil, I did not see you."

The man in question laughed, showing off perfectly straight, white teeth. "I know I should take offense to that," he said in that rich voice of his, "but I think that it was not my form that was not striking, but rather your own thoughts which held sway?"

"You are correct," Míriel said with a smile. "I was lost in a tangle of them, and would beg your pardon."

"You have it."

There was a moment of silence, and Elendil looked as though he was about to bow and depart, but Míriel wasn't about to let her chance to talk to the man fade without effort. "And how are you settling into Court life, kinsman? It must be very different from the life you knew in Andúnië or on the sea."

Elendil nodded. "It is different, much busier, but I find I enjoy it. I did not think that I should ever come to Court and certainly not as an advisor to the King."

"You speak of my grandfather, perhaps," Míriel said, understanding. "Ar-Gimilzôr was never a friend to the Lords of Andúnië."

"Indeed," Elendil said softly, "but it warms my heart that your father is, and that Númenor has the promise of once again being restored to its former glory."

"We all wish for that," Míriel said softly, sifting the book in her hands.

The movement caught Elendil's attention, and he looked down at her burden. "What's this? Have you come from the archives?"

"Yes," she answered. "I felt like a touch of poetry this morning, and we have quite an extensive collection of the lays transcribed here into books so that the original scrolls are not damaged by those who wish to read them."

"And which did you choose?"

"_The Lay of Leithian_," Míriel confessed softly. "It is one of my favorites."

"Ah," Elendil said, "let me see if I remember…_Her robe was blue as summer skies / but grey as evening were her eyes / 'twas sewn with golden lilies fair, / and bright as sunshine was her hair_."

Míriel smiled, tilting her head to the side. "Your memory deceives you, kinsman. For Lúthien Tinúviel had dark hair, not light."

Though she kept her voice light, Míriel was not insensible to the fact that in quoting the description of Lúthien Tinúviel, the fairest of all elleths, and altering it, he was also describing her. Though she thought nothing of her beauty, she was wearing her favorite blue dress and she did indeed have golden hair and grey eyes, eyes that the son of Amandil was now staring into deeply.

"Perhaps her hair was not golden, but it would only have enhanced her beauty if it had been." He then whispered, "_Glorfinriel_."

His eyes continued to look deeply into hers, and with no excess to his movements, Elendil took her hand and bowed over it, never breaking eye contact. "My lady," he murmured, kissing the knuckles before releasing her and departing.

_Glorfinriel_, he had called her. It meant a maiden crowed with a garland of golden hair.

Míriel stood in the passageway for a long time, staring after his retreating form and ignoring Alquamírë's hissed entreaties.

* * *

Buffy stepped into the classroom of her Poetry 201 class, passing the students and approaching the teacher. "Professor Lillian?"

The man in question was trying to pull a slide out of the projector, so he was somewhat surprised to see the girl standing before him, as he had not heard her approach. "Buffy."

"I'm sorry that I missed the lecture today. Was it good?" At his look, Buffy grimaced and said, "Um, of course it was." Noticing that he was still struggling with the projector, she offered, "Do you want me to try?"

"Yes, thanks, the slide is stuck in the…thing," the professor said.

"Okay," Buffy said. "Um, I just came by to tell you that I have to drop this class. All my classes actually. I'm not finishing the semester. I wish it…I just, I can't be in school right now. I have to take care of my sister."

Professor Lillian nodded and said, "Yes, I thought you might. I was very sorry to hear about your loss."

Buffy wished, more than ever, that people would stop saying that. Sorry didn't change anything. With a deep breath, she said, "I have these forms from the registrar's office that I need you to sign."

"Oh, yes." The professor put the papers down on the table and then put on his glasses to read them. Once he had signed them and handed them back, Buffy thanked him.

"Is there something else?" Lillian asked when she didn't leave.

"No. Yes. Yeah. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed this class." Buffy went back to trying to remove the slide from the projector. "I mean, I know that I wasn't the best student, but I really learned a lot. And I really like poetry. I really do." The slide chose that moment to pop out and go flying across the room. "Oh, sorry."

"I'm glad you like poetry, Buffy," the professor smiled.

"I wish I had time for it. But I just ... don't right now."

"Well, maybe short poems."

"Yeah! Like, like those, those Japanese ones that, that, um, sound like a sneeze?"

"Haiku?" Professor Lillian suggested, sounding as though he was trying not to laugh.

"Right," Buffy said. "Maybe those. And hopefully I'll be back next semester. When I'm more myself again."

"Well, good luck, Buffy," he said, smiling at her once more.

"Thanks," Buffy said, turning to leave, when she suddenly said, "Um, Professor Lillian, do you know a lot about epic poetry?"

Lillian, who had walked over to pick of the slide, straightened and looked at her quizzically. "Epic poems aren't exactly short, Buffy."

"Right," Buffy said, blushing. "I just came across a reference to one…in my reading, and I was curious if you had heard of it."

"Well, I did my doctoral thesis on the _Iliad_, so I might have."

"It's called _The Lay of Leithian_."

"From _The Lays of Beleriand_?" the professor asked, his interest suddenly peaked. "That's rather obscure."

"So you _have_heard of it then," Buffy stated, trying not to sound too eager.

"Yes, they are quite a mystery," Lillian stated, looking thoughtful. "They were discovered in a monastery during the English Reformation, and then were sent to Oxford where they languished indecipherable for centuries. But then a young professor, a fellow by the name of Tolkien, translated them into English. The one you spoke of, _The Lay of Leithian_, is about an immortal Elf maiden, Lúthien Tinúviel, who gives her love to a mortal man, Beren, but her father disapproved of the match."

"Wait, elf? As in Santa's little helpers?" Buffy's dreams had used the words elf and elf-friend, but she had a hard time picturing a man and a little female Keebler elf being romantic.

Lillian laughed. "Not exactly. These elves looked exactly like men and women, but were said to be more beautiful, devoted to music and dancing, and blessed with eternal life. So after he is rejected by Lúthien's father, King Thingol, in order to win her hand, Beren sets off on an adventure and Lúthien soon follows. It is beautiful, epic poetry in rhyming couplets, but unfortunately we have only a fragment of the text. And _The Lays of Beleriand_are quite a mystery to scholars too. There is no reference to them in any other history or tale, nor the stories they repeat. It is as if they dropped out of the sky, frankly."

Buffy nodded, her heart racing at this confirmation which she had been both hoping for and fearing. Dropped out of the sky, yeah right, more like dropped out of the sky and into this dimension. "Thank you, Professor," Buffy said.

"Any time," Lillian said. Leaning over on the table, he quickly wrote something on a torn piece of paper and handed it to Buffy. "Here. _The Lays of Beleriand_ have never been published on their own, but they are a part of this collection. They are bound to be in the bookstore here, as I know Linfield uses this text to teach _Beowulf_."

"Great," Buffy said, determined to go buy it right then. "And thanks."

"No problem, Buffy. We'll see you next semester."

* * *

_3176, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

The morning air was crisp when Míriel returned to the palace. With careful precision, she directed her horse to the side training yards, careful to keep her hood up so that she could not be seen by the servants who were starting to rise in order to begin their day. Míriel had no illusions that many of the servants did know about her morning rides, but so far the ones that did were loyal to her and had not told her father, but all it took was one and then the rumors would begin.

With careful sureness, Míriel led her horse, Rothinzil, into the stables. Once she was inside and under cover, Míriel swung off his back and led him by the reins into his stall. There she took off his tack, including the bit from between his teeth. In unhurried practiced movements, Míriel began the long process of rubbing him down and began to sing a ditty she had learned as a child.

"My lady Míriel?"

She shrieked, startling her horse. Her hood then fell back and uncovered her face, and she saw with horror that Elendil was standing in the doorway of the stall, looking at her in shock.

"_Á pusta_, Rothinzil," Míriel murmured to her horse who was beginning to rear, ordering him to stop. He settled quickly, all the while she softly said, "It's all right."

"Forgive me," Elendil said, almost stuttering. "I heard singing, and I thought…I did not mean to disturb you."

Míriel wanted to cry. It wasn't fair. The one man she wanted to impress, the one man she wanted to view her as nothing but a lady, was now looking at her like he had never seen her before. The King's daughter knew she must look a fright, dressed in boy's breeches and boots, and a loose shirt, topped by a worn cloak, with her breasts bound and her hair braided in a golden coronet atop her head. Crowned with a garland of golden hair, like he had taken to calling her.

"You rode out this morning?" Elendil asked, tilting his head to the side. "Alone and dressed like that? This is a very dangerous action, lady."

Míriel was determined not to be weak in his presence. Even if he could not look at her the same way, even if he could not return her lov—no, she would not think of that now. This was who she was. She could not lie about it. Perish the thought of them marrying, and him discovering then. No, if he was to lose all affection for her when her true nature was revealed, well, she would rather know it now. Gathering her courage, she lifted her chin, looked him in the eye, and said, "Not just this morning, Lord Elendil. I ride out most mornings. I am dressed like this for my skirts are cumbersome and often in the way. And as for any danger, my people love me, mariner. Were any of them to discover my identity, I have no doubt that I would be safe among their company."

"Even so, my lady," Elendil said, coming forward towards her, skirting around Rothinzil, "you could still come to injury were your horse to rear or throw you. Why do you go alone?"

The Fair Lady of Armenelos retreated until her back hit the wall, yet still Elendil moved forward. When he was only a hairsbreadth away from her, she confessed, "I do not ride sedately when I keep my own company. I become quite a wild thing."

"I should like to see that," he murmured, reaching out and winding a lock of blonde hair that had come loose around his finger. "I am sure you are a sight to behold."

"You would not like me were you to see me in my wild ways."

"On the contrary, Míriel," Elendil said, shocking her by his liberal use of her name, "I find that I like you more than ever. When I thought you a budding flower perched upon one of the boughs of Nimloth, which bloomed in the shade of the King's House despite stifling heat of Armenelos, I was convinced of your beauty and grace, but now I am to discover that you are not so simple. On the contrary, you are a wild mountain rose which looks all that is proper and lady-like, the fairest flower to look upon, but is bound up with thorns and resents the eager hand which plucks her from her rocky home."

He leaned in close at that moment, so close that she could feel his breath upon her neck. "I underestimated you, dear one. You are rare, so beautiful to behold, fairer than silver or ivory or pearls, that all who look upon you are filled with thoughts of love, and yearn to possess that which is most fair. But those men who see you, dare not touch such perfection, lest they mar it by doing so, proving that they have not your true measure. For you are a wild thing, as you said, and I mean not to treat you like the finest of spun glass."

He pulled back for a moment then, allowing Míriel to see the desire that had swallowed his irises, leaving only the darkness of his pupils behind. His breath fanned her face, and she too was panting at his nearness, yearning for something she could not name, and knowing instinctively that he alone had the power to give it to her.

Reaching out, his thumb traced the curve of her jaw. Her shocked eyes flew to his, surprised that he took such a liberty and surprised at herself for allowing it. "I must go," he said softly. "My business in Rómenna cannot wait, though I am loath to part from you as I haven't since I came to Court six months ago. I shall come back, though, fair one, and when I do, we shall come to a decision, you and I."

With that, he strode out of the stables, leaving behind his lady, who could do naught more than sag weakly against the wall.

* * *

Buffy didn't awaken quickly that time, instead, she slowly returned to wakefulness as the mist of dreams faded away. Due to her rather eventful night, Buffy had thought that she might take a nap before her meeting with Dawn's principal. That had been a mistake.

Instead of the rest she had been hoping for, she had been thrown right back into the Days of Our Lives, alternate dimension style. Why did she keep dreaming about this girl, Míriel? What exactly was she supposed to be observing? The idea that her alternate dimension twin was in danger was looking less and less likely. She was a princess! This girl obviously had a charmed life, she was still youthful at sixty for goodness sake, and she was falling in love with a man who seemed to love her back. Where was the drama? If these were slaying dreams, shouldn't there be, oh, something to slay?

Grumbling to herself, Buffy got out of bed and checked the clock before heading to her closet. Plenty of time to find a professional outfit that made her look like a grownup to impress Dawn's principal, and not like the twenty-year-old kid she really was.

* * *

After the disaster that was her meeting at Dawn's school, Buffy went with her sister to the Magic Box. Once the gang had exchanged greetings, and Xander had put his foot in his mouth, Buffy went with Giles to the back room to talk.

"Is everything all right?" Giles asked, once the door to the training room closed. "How did the meeting with Dawn's principal go?"

"Oh, it was a train wreck. And we're not talking the small erector set trains, but big, Amtrak trains." Buffy huffed and threw herself down on the couch. "But before we get to that, there is something I need to talk to you about."

"I'm listening," Giles said, taking a sip of his tea.

"Well, I've been having these dreams."

"Prophetic dreams?"

"I don't know," Buffy said, shrugging. "They started Sunday, after we got back from the Spirit Quest."

"You think they are a remnant of a ritual?"

"Yes, no, I don't know," Buffy said, standing and beginning to pace. "They are so strange because they don't seem to be about anything dire. They are about this princess, who looks exactly like me, and it's like—This Is Your Life, Míriel of Armenelos, only I have never heard of her before and there are mythical creatures that seem to live in her dimension."

"Armenelos? You think that's the name of the dimension?" Giles asked, looking thoughtful. "I've certainly never heard of it before, but that does not mean that it isn't simply an uncharted one."

"No," Buffy said. "It's the name of her city, which is located on this island that looks like a star, Númenor."

"Númenor? Interesting," Giles said.

"You know it?" Buffy asked.

"Well, yes," he replied. "The name at any rate. Though I did not think it was the name of a place, I always thought it was the name of a race."

"Whadda ya mean?"

"Well," Giles said, shifting and taking another sip of tea. "There was a sect of warriors back before written word, mostly legend really. They don't exist anymore, but it whatever knowledge they had was to be passed from the Master, who they called _Atar_, to the apprentice, called _Onya_. They referred to themselves as Númenóreans and Exiles. And they came from an island called Atalantë, which was lost in an earthquake."

"Ah-tah-lan-te? Never heard of it," she said.

"Sure you have," Giles replied. "You just know it by its Anglicized name. We call it Atlantis."

"Jesus," Buffy said, rubbing her eyes. "This is just what we need. So Atlantis, it is in this dimension? I thought Plato made the whole thing up."

Giles hummed. "The Watcher's Council thinks not. They did extensive research on the subject—it was rumored to be quite advanced you know—and eventually they determined that it was in another dimension. The few Númenóreans who ended up in this dimension probably did so due to a magical backlash when the island went down. It was held in oral tradition that the few Exiles who survived were fishermen, and had been at sea at the time Atlantis was swallowed by the waves. It was eventually determined by the Watchers that the earthquake which sunk Atlantis must have been caused by magical means, and when the island perished, it caused a bleed between dimensions that allowed a few people to escape through. The Exiles then landed in what is now Crete and began their sect, passing their knowledge from master to pupil. At any rate, once the knowledge was passed, the Master deemed his knowledge complete and lay down and died."

"What?" Buffy said, gaping. "They just died?"

"Well, it seems they willed it for themselves," the Watcher answered. "They considered death to be natural and right."

_Death is your gift_.

Buffy shuddered. "That is just all kinds of wrong."

Giles looked at her searchingly. "You seem quite disturbed by this. Why do you think you are having the dreams now? It's fairly obscure, don't you think? It's probably just a psychic echo. You are prone to dreams of prophecy, as you know. This means that sometimes you will be sent dreams that are not yours, but merely have no other place to go."

"I don't know," Buffy said. "What about the fact that the princess looks like me? Isn't that weird?"

"You are probably just projecting your face onto hers," Giles speculated. "Our minds are designed to protect us, Buffy; often we see what we want to see."

"I still want us to look into it," the Slayer said firmly. "It could be more than a psychic echo. Maybe something went wrong with the ritual with the Spirit Guide?"

"Well, that's certainly worth looking into."

Neither of them could possibly know that there would never be a chance to look into it, and that the events of the next few days would strike the conversation with Buffy completely from the Watcher's mind.

"Now," Giles said, "tell me about the meeting with Dawn's principal."

* * *

"Take me away? What do you mean?"

Buffy looked at her sister and tried not to lose her temper any further. Dawn needed to understand; to be on her side. Buffy wasn't sure what she would do if she lost Dawn. "They'll take you away from me," she said softly to her sister. "That's what your principal told me when you weren't in the room. If I can't make you go to school, then I won't be found fit to be your legal guardian." Buffy went back to folding the dish towels.

"Where would I go?" Dawn asked, her voice cutting into the silence.

"I don't know," Buffy said, not looking at her. "Dad, maybe, or foster care. I didn't really want to ask."

"You could've told me that," Dawn stated petulantly.

"I just did," Buffy said firmly.

After several more minutes of folding, Dawn put down her pen and declared, "I'm done."

"Okay, then you can start on your chores," Buffy said. "Now, I am going to try to rest. If they are completed when I wake, I'll know you can be trusted to go unsupervised and I'll be more relaxed. Fair?"

"Yeah," Dawn said with a sigh.

Buffy walked over to the couch in the living room, stretching out and closing her eyes.

* * *

_3178, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

The music was soaring through the eaves of Tar-Minyatur's Hall. The banquet celebrating the Feast of _Yestarё_, the New Year, was well underway. Though she was not a fan of banquets as a rule, mostly because Míriel was not allowed to simply enjoy them as she usually had to play hostess, this one held a special charm for her.

Two whole years. Elendil had been gone for two entire years. She had missed him intensely, used to his sunny and charming presence in the halls of the palace. But business had taken him hence, and according to his father, it was extensive. Amandil remained at Court, for which Míriel was thankful, for his son was a faithful correspondent, and from the Lord of Andúnië the King's daughter could always pry news.

The months of waiting had seemed eternal, but they had all come to an end the day before. Elendil had arrived back in Armenelos, and had announced that there was no business that he had left. He intended to stay in the capitol with his father for a good amount of time.

For all that though, he was here tonight and he had not approached her yet! Míriel was growing frustrated, and decided to take matters into her own hands. Taking a goblet of sweet wine from a passing servant, Míriel downed it, and then wended her way through the crowd until she reached Elendil's side.

"Hail Lord Elendil, welcome back to Court."

The son of Amandil turned at the sound of her voice, and Míriel fancied that his eyes brightened for a moment before shuttering again. "Hail Lady Míriel, and a merry New Year to you."

"And you, sir. Why do you stand in the corner so gloomily? This is a celebration, and yet I think there is nothing about you which seeks merriment."

Elendil looked at her, his eyes dark, and he said, "I would you not catch my somber feelings, my lady, and must beg you to return to your father. I see Lord Annabrethil is with him. I have heard you have been much in company with him of late."

Míriel gasped. "It is not so, my lord. He is one of my father's counselors, but no more. I would you not think so."

"But it is said he means to try for your hand," Elendil said softly, looking up then, hope beginning to flare in his eyes.

"He may try, my lord. Whether he shall succeed is another matter entirely."

A full blown grin then split across Elendil's face, and he held out his hand, "Would you care to dance, my lady?"

"No," Míriel said, "But I am much desirous of some air. Would you escort me outside?"

"With pleasure," Elendil said, smiling again.

It was the work of the moment to depart the busy Hall and slip into one of the darkened corridors. The one they chose ended in the courtyard which at its center housed the White Tree of Númenor, Nimloth.

Elendil led her to a bench on the far side of the square, which was hidden from view by an alcove, setting her down upon it. "I am going to go get us some refreshment, I shall return presently."

Míriel smiled and nodded. Once he had departed, the King's daughter's gaze was drawn to the White Tree, which fairly glowed in the darkness. Long had the tree been neglected, and it was only now that it was being tended again. It did her heart good to see it. Her father had prophesized that when the White Tree perished, the line of Kings would come to an end. Míriel was not sure she believed that, her foresight was much weaker than her father's, but she was glad the tree was being treated with honor once more.

"Gimilkhâd, you are being overly dramatic."

The lady inaudibly gasped, pressing further into the alcove. It was her father's voice she heard, and he was speaking to her uncle.

"And you, Inziladûn, have not the wit to see the folly you are headed towards." Only her Uncle Gimilkhâd could get away with calling her father that name anymore; that name he had forsaken when he ascended to the throne.

"Our own mother was descended from the Lords of Andúnië, brother," his brother the King, Tar-Palantir, answered him. "There were no repercussions then. I care not if my daughter wishes to ally herself thusly now. Elendil seems a good man, and your own son is ever close friends with his father. And with regards to birth, my daughter could not do better."

"Regarding descent and birth, my son would be a better choice," Gimilkhâd commented idly.

The King gasped. "They are akin too near! Such a marriage would be accursed, brother!"

"It matters not," Gimilkhâd said, "for he would make a good King when you are gone."

"Calion has my love, brother. He shall have no more; not my daughter, and not my throne."

"You may yet change your mind, Inziladûn," Gimilkhâd said, his voice angry and full of steel. "The people of Númenor shall not bow down to an elf-friend from Andúnië, whatever his birth. Know this, should your daughter marry him, I fear her way to claiming the Sceptre will be rocky indeed."

"Are you threatening me?" her father asked, his voice hard. "I am your King."

"So you are," Gimilkhâd answered, "and I, but your servant. Forgive me, brother. I must leave the celebrations now, and return to my duties of leading the King's Men."

"Nay," Tar-Palantir said, his voice returned to normal. "Stay a while yet and join in the revelry."

"I cannot, my King. As a younger son, it is my duty to work for my way, and I would not shame myself by being idle. Fare you well, brother."

Míriel heard her father and her uncle departing and breathed a sigh of relief. It would not have been good had she been discovered there. Her thoughts then turned to what she had learned. What could it mean? Why would her uncle oppose the idea of her marriage to Elendil? And what could he possibly have meant by suggesting his own son as a replacement? Calion was like a brother to her, and they were so close of kin as to make such a marriage incestuous. For a moment, Míriel feared that all her hopes would come to naught and that she would be married to her cousin against her will.

The moment then passed and Míriel scoffed at herself. Her father would never deny her anything she wanted, and she wanted Elendil. Calion, son of Gimilkhâd, would never be more than her cousin and friend.


	4. Chapter Three

_Follow, follow stars that leap  
Up the heavens cold and steep;  
Turn when dawn comes over land,  
Over rapid, over sand,  
South away! and South away!  
Seek the sunlight and the day._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, Barrels Out of Bond, The Hobbit_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_3185, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

"Hail to the Golden Lady of Armenelos."

Míriel turned towards the sound of the hauntingly familiar voice that disturbed her solemnity in the garden bower. The middle months had come once more to Númenor, and the King's daughter had been enjoying the peace of her private garden. It was one of the only places that she could remain in and dismiss her ladies from her side without causing offence. Only three people had access to it, Míriel, her father Tar-Palantir, and Elendil. Smiling now, and looking into the face that she had missed and loved for many years as he came and went from Court, Míriel smiled. "Well met, Lord Elendil. I did not think to look for your coming for another week complete."

The son of Amandil smiled, and came over and sat by the King's daughter. "I tried to finish my business in Andúnië as quickly as possible. Though I love the city and the shores that have long housed me and my kin, my attachment to it has lessened of late. My thoughts now seem to bend towards Armenelos."

"Oh?" Míriel asked, turning from Elendil and walking to the edge of the garden wall, which was low and looked out over the Golden City and towards the haven of Rómenna in the distance. "And what is it that holds such an attraction for you in Armenelos? Perhaps you find our sport and hunting superior to that in Andúnië?"

"Indeed, my lady," Elendil said, lowering his voice and coming up behind her until they were almost pressing together, back to front. "There is one quarry indeed that I seek to hunt. Long has it eluded my grasp, and yet I think it not for fear, but rather because it enjoys the hunt as much as I."

"Perhaps you are right. Maybe your quarry likes to be chased, and longs for the game to continue again when you are away on your long absences to Andúnië and Eldalondë and Rómenna, or roaming the sea as a mariner," Míriel replied, a smile twitching at her lips. "But how can your prey trust in your sincerity when you tarry away for so long?"

"Would that I had the freedom of my movements and the leisure to spend my life in what pursuit I choose, but I do not. Long years now has your father bid me hence, to rule in Andúnië, or to govern in Rómenna when the King's Men are up to their usual mischief. As I am your father's servant in all that he may command me, and my father's son, and I must, in obedience, serve them first, but one should not mistake my duty and honor as a reflection of them being first in my heart. Only one has that distinction, and yet still I know not if it is returned."

"Your honor does you credit," Míriel said softly. "And the one who holds your heart must be fortunate indeed."

"'Tis I who am the fortunate one, _Glorfinriel_, but I hope she will forgive my faults and consent to be my wife."

"Your wife? 'Cold is the life of a Mariner's wife,' kinsman," the King's daughter said. "I hope your lady is made of strong stuff indeed."

Elendil's forefinger reached out and stroked up and down the flesh of her arm. Finally touching her, after months away, caused him to drop the game and address her directly. "I love you, Míriel. All that is mine, all that I can give to you, I wish to bestow upon you. I would spend my years loving you, supporting you as you bear the burden of the Sceptre. I would have all my sons and daughters by you, and love only you for all my days.

"Do you feel anything for me, lady?" he asked. "Does your heart leap when I am near, as mine does for you? Do your thoughts harken to me? Do you wish to spend all your days by my side, as I wish to spend all mine by yours? Will you exchange your pledge of love for mine, and marry me according to the old ways under a laurinquë tree?"

Míriel turned and looked her beloved in the eye. "My love, I will."

* * *

The phone's ringing jarred her from a peaceful sleep. Her head still slightly blurry, Buffy leaned over and grabbed the portable off the table. "Hello?"

"Buffy?"

"Giles?"

"Buffy, we need you right away." Giles sounded more stiff upper lip than usual.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Buffy asked.

"It's Glory. She went after Tara."

"Is she all right? Giles, is Tara all right?"

"No, I'm afraid not. It looks as though Glory has absorbed her energy. She has been driven insane."

"Oh, God," Buffy said, tears filling her eyes and guilt consuming her.

"We're all meeting at the hospital."

"Of course, I'll be there as soon as I can," Buffy said, fighting back tears. "I just have to get Dawn someplace safe first."

"All right, we'll see you shortly."

"Bye."

"Get me some place safe?" Buffy looked up to see Dawn standing in the hall. "Why? What's going on?"

"Dawn…its Tara."

* * *

"It's all my fault," Dawn said, looking away from her sister and into the abyss of the cavern.

"No," Buffy said, brushing Dawn's hair back from in front of her face. "Sweetheart, it is not your fault."

"How's Willow?"

"She was looking to go all payback-y on Glory for a minute. But I cooled her down a little. Actually a lot," Buffy said, trying to sound comforting. Her own worries about Willow had to be pushed aside for the moment. Buffy was just glad her friend had listened to her.

"So she's not gonna do anything rash, then," Spike said, causing Buffy to turn towards him.

"No," Buffy said, shaking her head a little. "I explained that there was no point."

"Mm-hmm," Spike hummed, walking a little closer to her.

"What?"

"You - so you're saying that a powerful and mightily pissed-off witch was plannin' on going and spillin' herself a few pints of god blood until you, what…explained?"

Buffy frowned, looking at Dawn and then back at Spike. "You think she'd ... no. I told Willow it would be like suicide."

"I'd do it," Spike said softly.

Buffy stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Right person. Person I loved," Spike looked at Buffy. "I'd do it."

Buffy looked at him, still not understanding what he was trying to tell her. Why would he do something so stupid? And then, knowledge came to her, like a flash of a waking dream. It was momentary, but it filled her with panic and sudden understanding.

_"What would you do? For his life, my Queen? What are you willing to give me to prevent me from sending him to the halls of his father's?"_

There was no question of her answer; she could only respond in one way.

"Anything."

Dawn's voice pulled her from the sudden vision. "Think, Buffy. If Glory had done that to me…" She said no more, for it was not needed. Buffy glanced at Spike, jumped up, and raced out.

* * *

Xander was on Willow-watch that night, as they all agreed that she couldn't be alone. Giles seemed more than a little concerned, especially when Buffy recited to him the spells that Willow had told her about. What Buffy wanted now, more than ever, was to succumb to a dreamless sleep. She was growing more than a little concerned about the dreams she was having, and yet they did not seem threatening.

It was almost like the girl, Míriel, was trying to show her something. Maybe help her to learn something. It had crossed Buffy's mind more than once that Númenor, its dimension, could be where Glory was from originally. The Watcher's might have said she was from a hell dimension, but maybe it only became a hell dimension later. Maybe first it was this perfect Atlantis, maybe that's why the Watchers couldn't figure out which dimension the island had been in. Maybe Glory conquered them. Maybe she was the reason the island sank. Maybe she had turned paradise into hell.

Buffy didn't know, but she was feeling a deep urgency to find out. Something was niggling at the back of her brain. Like something she had forgotten that was desperate to be remembered.

"Buffy?"

Looking up, Buffy saw her sister standing in the doorway of her room. "Hey, what are you doing up?"

"Spike said…he said I should talk to you, about something that has been bothering me. You got a moment?"

"Sure," Buffy said, patting the space on her bed next to her. "What's up?"

Dawn came over and sat down, sighing. "It's just I know you said that it wasn't my fault, but I can't help but think that it is. All off you, all the Scoobies, you're in danger because of me." Her voice was halting, and she sounded on the verge of tears. "I think that the Key, what I am, it must be bad…so bad, to cause so much pain."

Buffy wanted to deny it, or scream out, or tell Dawn not to be stupid, but she had a feeling that such behavior wouldn't solve anything. So, instead, she said, "You're right, a lot of people have died. The monks all sacrificed their lives so that you would be safe. They could have sent you to anyone in the world, but they sent you to me. It seems to me, you don't give up your life to protect something that is evil, and you don't send it to evil's biggest enemy if that is the case."

"But all the people who have died…"

"It's hard to understand," Buffy said softly, "and I hope you never have to, but some things are worth dying for."

* * *

_3185, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

She had never been so happy in all her life. She, Míriel of Armenelos, was to be married. Her joy was bound so tightly together that she was convinced she should never feel sadness or regret. Clutching tightly to Elendil's hand, they ran together like children to Tar-Minyatur's Hall. When they reached it, they stepped inside. To Míriel's joy, not only was her father there, but Elendil's as well.

Tar-Palantir and Amandil were standing in front of a long table, on which were spread out several maps. They were speaking in hushed voices, though they were the only ones in the Hall. Míriel did not speak out to disturb them, for Elendil spoke in her stead.

"Hail Tar-Palantir the Wise, and Amandil, my father."

Amandil turned, looking towards his son with surprise on his face. "Elendil! I did not expect you back so soon!" He then looked downwards at his son's hand, which was joined with Míriel's, and smiled. "Perhaps, _onya_, some urgent errand drew you hither?"

"I think you have long foreseen this and rejoiced, _atarinya_, but it brings me much pleasure to tell you now without delay. The Lady Míriel has accepted my hand in marriage. We have come to ask for the King's blessing, and yours, on our betrothal."

"And you have it," Amandil said laughing. He moved forward and ceremoniously kissed Míriel on both cheeks, the emeralds from the ring of Barahir gleaming on his left hand. "Welcome to our house, _yelya_. May the blessings of the Valar long shine upon your union."

"Thank you, _atarinya_," Míriel said, smiling prettily at Amandil. "Long have our two houses been united, it is fitting now that the last son of your house and the last daughter of my father's should join together and create a new Númenor."

"This is well said, daughter," Amandil said laughing. "Long have I treasured the thought of you as nearer kin for the joy you give my son, but now I think upon the joy you shall give us all. It has been long since a fair face has graced our house, and I could not be happier in my son's choice for his lady. A great wife you shall be to him, and an even greater Queen when the time comes."

Míriel smiled, and then looked to her Father who had not moved and was looking at her with a pained look on his face. His daughter knew that to lose her in marriage would be a bitter parting for her father, so she did not worry that he was not effusive in his reaction. "Have you no congratulations to tender, Father? Can you not be happy for me?" She smiled at him. "As my husband is in your service, he shall not be taking me away and I will always be near you. There, you see? There is nothing to fret about."

"You are right, daughter," Tar-Palantir said. "There is nothing to fret about."

Elendil and Míriel exchanged a smile and then turned back to the King.

"There is nothing to fret about," the King stated gravely, "because you are not to marry."

"Father? I don't understand."

"He shall not be your husband, _yelya_. Think not to marry the son of Amandil, for he will not be bound to you in marriage."

"My King," Elendil burst out, dropping Míriel's hand and kneeling on the floor. "Tell me what I have done to offend you and I shall strive to make amends."

"You covet that which is fairest and dearest to me," Tar-Palantir claimed, stepping away from the table and settling upon the throne. "My only daughter is mine to give, and I think not on giving her to you."

"My King and kinsman," Amandil said, stepping forward, "though it must be painful to lose your daughter in marriage, think instead that you gain a son. Truly, my friend, you know that there is no other man on the isle of Elenna who can match her in breeding and pedigree. And the daughter of the King _must_marry one of the Line of Elros. My son will make a fine consort for her, more so because he loves her and wants her happiness above all else."

"I think indeed," Tar-Palantir said, "that it is my daughter's Sceptre he wishes to encompass, and her throne too. Long have I foreseen this day and longer still have I seen you in your elder years, young Elendil, wearing the Elendilmir upon your brow. You mean to be a King, not a consort."

"Father, no!" Míriel burst out. "I know not why your mind has taken it so, but think again on this. My happiness is bound up with his. If you pain Elendil by refusing, you bring such sorrow also on me. This is not a marriage of alliance, or one for power. Elendil does not wish to claim the throne, nor take it from me when it comes to me by lawful inheritance." With a deep breath, she said softly, "He loves me, _atto_. And I love him. I shall have no happiness but by his side."

"It is true, my King," Elendil said, not rising from the floor. "I love Míriel, and I shall have no other. I want her for my wife, not for her future throne, but for her gentle heart and her ever-changing mind. I have loved her, wanted her, wished for her…from the very moment of our meeting. It is she alone that I will take to wife, and I know that if you deny me this now, I shall die a bachelor, and the Lordship of Andúnië will fall into abeyance."

"Please, _atto_," Míriel begged, once again calling him the diminutive name for Father. "This is the only thing I have ever wished for, or asked for. Please."

"You are young, daughter," Tar-Palantir said, "and you shall come to change your mind. But my decision, that is unchangeable, and will remain ever true. Elendil, son of Amandil, you are forthwith discharged from your King's service and are dismissed to your lands in Andúnië. Leave my halls, and do not darken them again."

Elendil bowed stiffly, and looked at Míriel one last time before turning on his heel and departing.

* * *

_3192, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

Civil war was brewing on Númenor. Ever was her father's brow furrowed these days as more and more reports of uprisings and riots reached his ears. The King's Men, led by her uncle Gimilkhâd, had once been a minor irritant, were now the greatest threat to Númenor, at least in Míriel's father's mind. The greatest problem of her father's reign was that he led a people who had not turned back from sinful and unholy ways as he had. The King's repentance had not brought his people with him, and so the reign that had begun in such triumph had quickly fallen to strife and discord.

The people did not mind the King's Men. They like the rabble rousers and persecutors of the innocent. Míriel thought that they liked having champions that encouraged their licentious and greedy behavior, and targeting the Faithful, the remnant of Númenóreans who still called themselves Elf-friends, was easy.

And her Uncle Gimilkhâd was, perhaps, an easy banner for them to rally behind. For he was a great adventurer of the seas, and had made a large fortune in his youth, that he spent constantly, and gave liberally to his friends and companions. It was easy for the citizens of Westernesse to sing his praises, for in comparison they had their King who had become more reserved and more pious as the years went on.

Her father, Tar-Palantir, spent most of his time now making pilgrimages to the West of Númenor to Oromet, near Andúnië, or to the holy mountain Meneltarma in the center of the island. Míriel often joined him when he went on his day trips to Meneltarma, and when he climbed the mountain she would stay below near Noirinan, in the Queen's House, which was an monastery devoted to Eru Ilúvatar founded during the reign of Tar-Ancalimё, Númenor's first Ruling Queen. But she never accompanied him on his trips to Andúnië. The pain would simply be too great.

Though she had tried to remain herself, despite the great blow she had been given, it was not to be. Míriel was a mere shell of what she once had been. She no longer rode her faithful mare; Rothinzil had long since died, and she had not replaced her. Much of her wild spirit had disappeared completely, and she not how to retrieve it.

One day, she was walking in the direction of the archives, her ever faithful Alquamírë her only companion. It was the day before _Erulaitalё_, midsummer, and the Court had all departed for their homes to prepare for the great concourse to Meneltarma that would begin the next day at dawn. Míriel had certainly not been pained to see the backs of her ladies as they departed for their homes, for their company brought her no pleasure.

"You are treading a very thin line, Gimilkhâd," her father's voice echoed in the corridor, coming from the room of Archives. Míriel realized the room was in use, and turned to depart when Gimilkhâd's voice stopped her in her tracks.

"You certainly did not protest so vociferously when it was your daughter's marriage I sought to prevent." Gimilkhâd laughed. "I think she would not thank you for it, nor would she find comfort in the fact that you protest more over some meaningless peasants than her happiness."

"My lady," Alquamírë whispered, "we should depart."

Míriel hushed her and went back to listening.

"We are not speaking of my daughter, Gimilkhâd," Tar-Palantir countered, "for I did not refuse her choice on your advice alone. I sought to prevent civil war, then and now. Do not think I do not know that the threats to her life should she marry Elendil were from your men. Though I could not prove it, I am not unaware. I think, brother, you savor too much of bloodshed. No man of Númenor wears a sword on his belt, and yet you and your men do so openly. You are disturbers of the peace, and the people that you persecute are innocent of any wrong doing."

"Idol worshippers and Elf-friends, the lot of them," her Uncle Gimilkhâd countered. "They are not true citizens of Númenor, whatever you may say. But, rest assured, brother, I had nothing to do with that little incident in Rómenna. My men were simply overly zealous."

"I find, brother, that you are as slippery as a snake in the grass, and little can I trust your word."

"So you may protest, my dear brother Inziladûn, but I think you are quick to follow my council when it suits you," Gimilkhâd sneered. "Tar-Palantir, the King who mourns. You look ever backwards brother, when you should be looking towards the future as I am. Those so-called Faithful and their Elf-worship, bah! We don't need them. I could give you greater power than you could ever imagine, brother, if you would but listen."

"The power you offer me would come at much too great a cost to pay, Gimilkhâd," Tar-Palantir said. "If you continue in this course, know that you set your will against your King's and I will be ever vigilant in waiting for an opening through which against you I might strike."

"In doing so, you would secure your own downfall, Inziladûn," Gimilkhâd replied. "For I am loved by the people, and you merely tolerated. And while the people welcome my presence, yours they dread and the hours of useless piety that are sure to follow. For my house is great and stands strong, as I have such a son that any father might be proud. While you have only a useless daughter, whose sanity and fitness to lead have come much into question these last seven years."

Míriel hurried away then, having heard enough. The King's daughter thought she should have been grateful to know her Father's heart had not turned against her, and that he had only refused Elendil to prevent civil war and keep her safe, but she didn't. Without Elendil, she felt nothing.


	5. Chapter Four

_The Road goes ever on and on  
Down from the door where it began.  
Now far ahead the Road had gone,  
And I must follow, if I can,  
Pursuing it with eager feet,  
Until it joins some larger way  
Where many paths and errands meet.  
And whither then? I cannot say._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, A Long-Expected Party, The Fellowship of the Ring_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

They were going to lose. Buffy could feel it in her bones. She and Dawn might have gotten away from Glory this time, but their good luck had finally run out.

Glory knew that Dawn was the Key.

Everything else paled in comparison. Glory would never stop hunting them. The almost whimsical interest she had taken in Buffy and her friends before, would now intensify and concentrate and nothing they could do now would stop it from happening. Dimly, Buffy listened to her friends throwing out stupid suggestions in the background and responding when needed, until she couldn't take it anymore.

"We can't fight her," Buffy suddenly declared, silencing the room.

"Well not yet, no," Giles said, "but—"

"No, not ever," Buffy said. "She's too strong, Giles. We're not gonna win this with, with stakes, or spells, or pulling out some uranium power core. She's a god and she's coming for us. So let's just _not_be here when she starts knocking."

"Run away?" Anya asked. "Finally, a sensible plan."

"That's not what she meant," Xander said, looking to Buffy. "Is it?"

"Well, we can't stay here! She'll just kill us off one by one, until there's no one left standing between her and Dawn."

Giles tried to be soothing, but failed. "Buffy, we all understand the severity of the situation, but there must be another way."

"No," the Slayer declared. "We stay, we die. Show of hands for that option."

No one spoke, eloquently answering her.

"All right," Buffy said. "Nobody goes home, nobody tells anybody we're leaving. Just pack up whatever supplies we need, and that's it, we're gone."

"Cool," Dawn said, trying to be positive. "Don't have to study for that geometry test."

"What about wheels?" Xander jumped in. "I don't think everybody's gonna fit in the Xandermobile."

"Just get your stuff together," Buffy said, looking out the window again. "I'll handle the rest."

Buffy knew exactly what she had to do. She had to take her sister and run. Run so far and so fast that they would be long gone before anyone thought to look for them. They had to hide, and keep hiding, even if it continued every day for the rest of their lives. And she knew the one person she needed to accomplish that.

Spike.

* * *

The RV pulled up next to the curb, and one by one her friends began to pile on. It had been short work to get Spike to help. She had barely got the sentence out before he had jumped to do her bidding. Buffy had then taken Dawn and gotten maps and some supplies, meeting back at Spike's crypt where she found him waiting with the camper. Frankly, she didn't want to ask where he had gotten it, or if it was stolen. There was no time for niceties right now. The only thing that mattered was keeping Dawn safe.

"What's he doing here?" Giles demanded, the second he stepped in the RV and saw Spike behind the wheel.

"Just out for a jaunt," Spike taunted. "Thought I'd swing by and say howdy."

"Out."

Buffy was suddenly annoyed that Giles didn't automatically see the importance of Spike being there. Looking up from the maps she had been studying, the Slayer said, "He's here because we need him."

"The hell we do," Xander said.

"If Glory finds us, he's the only one besides me that has any chance of protecting Dawn," Buffy reminded him with some annoyance.

"Buffy, come on—" Xander began.

Jumping up in anger, Buffy nearly yelled, "Look, this isn't a discussion! He stays. Get over it." With that, she grabbed the map she had been looking at and went back into the bedroom of the RV, slamming the door behind her.

They didn't understand. They didn't see the pressure she was under, the desperation she felt. Buffy would do anything to protect Dawn, even having to put up with Spike.

Stretching out on the bed, Buffy began to cry silently. It was simply too much, and she wasn't strong enough. She couldn't do this. Her tears continued, eventually exhausting her and allowing her to sleep, but her dreams offered her no reprieve.

* * *

_3199, the Second Age, Sorontil, Númenor_

The journey from Armenelos to the base of the peak of Sorontil was no small thing, and the month of time that it had taken to travel on the Great Road from the City of the Kings to Ondosto, and thence into the heart of Forostar had seemed endless in its passing.

The idea had come to Míriel, quite suddenly, to depart from Armenelos and live quietly in the region of Forostar. Heirs to the throne were not required to make their homes in Armenelos and many didn't, though daughters of their Father's house always remained at home until marrying. But Míriel was nothing if not practical. Though she did not like reminding her father of her present misery, and his own fault in it, she had been willing to do it if it meant that she would be allowed to depart.

She had proposed to her father and sovereign that she might make her home for many years in the region of Forostar, in the very mountains that Tar-Meneldur had made his home. His tower still remained there, open to the public, and though Miriel would not live in it, she would be in its shadow. Once Tar-Meneldur had become King, he had been forced to live in Armenelos, but he had taken pleasure trips, when he could, to a house he had built in the valley at the base of Sorontil. It was within a day's ride of an observatory devoted to Elbereth Gilthoniel, Queen of the Stars, where visitors could come and stay, and visit the Tower of Elentirmo.

It was there that Míriel repaired now. She planned to stop briefly there, before continuing on the next day to the King's House at Sorontil.

When they reached the observatory, the King's daughter and her party—which only included her maid Alquamírë, and six of her father's guards (all of whom had been sent with her because they were members of the Faithful who had been driven out of the capitol, and her father wanted to make amends. So too were all the staff Faithful—whom had rode ahead—now at the King's house at Sorontil preparing for her arrival)—entered the silent observatory by way of the entrance hall. There they were greeted by the steward of the house, Círorn.

"_Alatúlië_," he said, bowing to the daughter of the King. "You honor us with your presence, my lady."

"_Hantanyel_," she thanked him. "My party and I only require lodgings for one night, and my guards have already informed me that they will sleep in shifts."

"This is very well," Círorn said. "We only have one other party here at present, and they stay briefly as well. Would you and your maid like to be shown to your rooms, or would you like to come into the Hall and sit by the fire and take some refreshment?"

"The latter, if you please," Míriel said, before following the steward into the Hall. He quickly excused himself, and Míriel made her way forward, until she stopped in shock when she spotted the other lone occupant of the great room.

She had not seen him in since that beautiful and horrible day when they had sworn their love and then had it torn from them, but her eyes detected no alteration in him. As much as always, she looked on him with the favor of love and it gave eternal beauty to his features.

Alquamírë murmured to her lady to depart, but the King's daughter did not heed her. Instead she walked forward towards the man who was staring into the fire. When she was close enough, she said, "Hail Elendil, son of Amandil."

The man in question suddenly whipped around, staring at her as if she was indeed a figment of his imagination, too precious to exist. "_Ai_! I know that it cannot be, and yet I think my eyes are now given to cruelty, to show me that which I love most, but which cannot be real."

Tears filled Míriel's eyes as she stared at him, spilling over her beautiful face. "It is I, Míriel, that same daughter of the King, whom once you loved."

"And to that do I still hold. Fourteen years have come and gone since last I did see your face, and yet I think my love stronger now, like a rock constantly crashed upon by waves, which judge all in its path with equal harshness, leaving behind only that which is strongest." Elendil stepped forward then, moving towards Míriel, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. "My beautiful _Glorfinriel_. Long have I missed you and yearned to see you once more."

Míriel smiled joyously, but with it came a sob.

* * *

_3207, the Second Age, Sorontil, Númenor_

"My lady? You have a visitor."

Míriel looked up from her embroidery to see one of the maids standing in the doorway, looking anxious. There could be only one visitor that made her look so. "Please send Lord Elendil in, Lothwen."

Though the King's House at Sorontil was staffed all by members of the Faithful, they were all well aware that the King did not look kindly on Elendil's love for his daughter. Though the idea of a marriage between her and Elendil had never reached more than speculation at Court, and word of their abortive betrothal never leaked out, the servants had been acquainted by what had passed by Alquamírë when they first arrived. Míriel's faithful servant had said she was protecting the lady from herself, but Míriel had never really forgiven her for it.

Putting aside her embroidery, which she hadn't been that interested in anyway, Míriel stood up and walked to the wide window and looked out at the Northern Mountains, called the Fororonti. This time away from Court had been ideal, and just what she had needed to be at peace with herself once more. The visits from Elendil, though, were problematic in more ways than one.

The son of Amandil had made Forostar his home these past eight years, staying in the guesthouse his family owned which was very near, no more than twenty minutes by horse, to the King's House. The closeness was due to the fact that Tar-Meneldur's sister Silmarien had loved to visit him when he stayed in Forostar, for she loved the mountains as much as he, so much that her husband had built her a house near to the King's, allowing her to visit her brother whenever she liked, and stay past his departure. Her husband being, of course, Elatan of Andúnië and Elendil's ancestor.

Míriel felt nothing but joy at Elendil's continued presence, though he did have to travel to Andúnië every now and then, but she worried too. Her father was a peaceable man in most respects, but from those he commanded, he expected obedience. Though he did not know that Elendil now dwelled in the same mountains as she, Míriel knew it was only a matter of time before he found out. She dreaded to think what he would say if he knew that Elendil called on her almost every day for the past eight years. Were he to ask, Míriel knew she could honestly tell her father that she had behaved respectably and had not given away her virtue, but in her heart she had been the most rebellious of daughters.

"Good morning, my love."

Míriel smiled and turned to see Elendil step into the room and immediately come to her side. One thing she had loved about spending this time in the Northern Mountains was that Elendil seemed completely disinclined to return to distance and impersonal speech, as they had been forced to maintain for decorum's sake before their betrothal. In Elendil's mind they had plighted their troth, and even her father's disapproval did not keep them from being betrothed.

"You are here early," she said, smiling at him and extending her hand.

Elendil stepped forward to take it, intertwining their fingers together. "I have come with a proposal for you."

"Oh?" she queried, elegantly lifting one eyebrow.

"Yes," Elendil said. "Today is _Eruhantalë_. On the first day of spring, on _Erukyermё_, I want you to marry me."

"But that is less than six months away!" Míriel protested. "My father will never agree in time."

"You misunderstand me, Golden one," Elendil said softly, pulling her into his arms and wrapping her securely within. "I mean to marry you without your father's consent."

"What?" Míriel gasped, drawing away.

"We'll come to him afterwards," Elendil said, looking at her with a fierce look in his eyes. "By then it will be done, and our marriage consummated."

Míriel blushed and looked away.

"I even think we should stay here for some time, a few months after the wedding, that way he cannot say that we are not married," Elendil continued. "After spending perhaps the spring and summer here, we can depart to Armenelos, the deed done and take his punishment as it comes. I don't care what I have to do. I shall make a public statement to the fact that I have no claim on the throne, if necessary. I'll even surrender all rights to my future claim over the lands of Andúnië. Whatever it takes, my love. I will do it."

"We have been playing a very dangerous game these past eight years, Elendil," Míriel said, her voice trembling. "So much so that I think it has made you reckless! Marry, and without my father's consent? You are mad. Imagine that we do this, and come back to Armenelos after…what's to say that my father will not demand your head as the price for our disobedience?"

Elendil pulled her into his arms once more and chuckled, "Then we shall have to make them a very good few months beforehand."

Míriel drew away. "Stop laughing, this is dangerous and you are making light of it."

"I'm not," he protested. "Truly, I'm not. The simple fact is this, I love you Míriel. In the fourteen years we were apart, I thought of nothing but you. You consumed my thoughts, filling my days with longing and sorrow, and filling me with recrimination that I did not seek to marry you within hours of meeting you, before your father's heart had a chance to turn against us. Truly, my beloved, I was the most wretched of creatures. I had no thought for the future, and would have spent all my days pining for you had my father not ordered me to my duties. I think he truly feared for my life, for he ordered me about in such minute tasks as he never had before, sending me long letters with directions of things that needed my attention. One such duty was this: six months before my arrival here, my father ordered me to inspect all of our various properties on Númenor and order what repairs there need be, and I did his bidding. I travelled to our granary in Orrostar, and our timber plantation in Hyarrostar, thence to Emeriё, Rómenna, and Eldalondë. Until finally I came here."

He paused, taking a breath. "There I was at the observatory below the Elentirmo. Sitting before the fire, though it warmed me not. Miserable I was, desperate for some end, even wishing I could be like the Eldar and simply fade. And then I heard your voice."

Míriel began to cry.

"You have told me many times that your pain equaled my own, and only these past eight years together have offered abatement. Think then, my love, on this," Elendil said softly, reaching out to stroke her cheek. "Sooner or later, your father shall call you home. Home, where I cannot follow. Would you choose to once more be parted?"

She began to sob in earnest then, allowing Elendil to hold her once more.

"Marry me in the spring, fair one. Let us put an end to our partings. Say you will be my wife, and cleave unto me forevermore. Say it now."

"My love, I will," Miriel said, repeating the words she had once said to him long ago. His blinding smile was her reply, and in that moment she could feel no regret. She was binding her fate to his, and trusting the Valar to lead her through whatever may come.

* * *

_3208, the Second Age, Sorontil, Númenor_

The wind was drifting through the trees. The cool mountain air was lightly blowing and it was a perfect spring day. Had all the people standing outside been at Armenelos, they would have celebrated _Erukyermё_by joining the concourse of the Court and the subjects who went with the King up the Meneltarma. Instead, as they were in Forostar, the servants of the King's House celebrated with a wedding.

There, at the base of the Fororonti, Míriel, the King's daughter, married Elendil of Andúnië under a laurinquë tree, as was once promised. The holy man, who had come over from the observatory the day before, now spoke quietly to the couple, binding them by love and affection, honor, and solemn vow.

Míriel was wearing blue, with red trimmings, garlanded in elanor flowers. Her bridegroom was dressed in white, and gold, and between them they represented all the colors of the royal house. They exchanged rings of gold, which they wore on their right index fingers: the gift of which was a promise never to sunder their souls, like the Eldar.

The holy man spoke at length. The words he said were sacred to the couple, and could not be repeated, but they were acknowledged and revered by the ones who heard them. Once their vows were exchanged, then came time for the giving of gifts. There were two gifts given by each, neither purchased. One of the earth, called the little gift. And one an heirloom of each house, called the great gift.

Míriel presented him first with his little gift. "This is a gift of sand, taken from the shores of Andúnië. May it be a reminder that you carry your people with you always, and that your time upon the land, like each grain of sand, has an end."

Elendil then spoke, presenting her with a bouquet of flowers as her little gift. "This is sweet lissuin, which grows in all regions of Númenor. May it remind you that life is all around us and that the purpose of marriage is to give life to our line."

Presenting her great gift, he then took her left hand and clasped a mithril bracelet around it. "This band of mithril was given to Silmarien, daughter of Tar-Elendil, by her nephew Tar-Aldarion. It came as a gift from Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor. It has been ever worn by the lady of the house of Valandil. I give it now to you, with the hope that it will one day belong to our oldest daughter, and pass to her descendents. May it give you the wisdom to guide our family."

Míriel turned then and presented her new husband with a sword. "This is Narsil, forged by Telchar of Nogrod, given to Eärendil before the War of Wrath, then entrusted to his son Elros. It was passed to his son Atanalcar, who then passed it down his line from firstborn to firstborn. It passed to me through my mother, Mírfin, as part of her dowry. I give it now to you, with the hope that it will one day belong to our oldest son, and pass to his descendents. May it always remind you that with life comes death, and that you are now charged to protect our house by the blade, if necessary."

As the last gift was given by Míriel to Elendil, she had a flash of foresight that he would use the blade in battle, hundreds of years from now, and that with his death, there it would break. Yet even with this knowledge, and the sorrow it brought, came the truth that it would one day be forged again.

The holy man then pronounced their union complete, and a great cheer went up from the servants, guards, and members of their respective houses who had come to see and witness the wedding.

There, under the boughs of laurinquë tree, Elendil kissed his bride and blessed their marriage.

* * *

A jolt of the RV woke her up, pulling Buffy from the ever delightful adventures of Míriel-the-princess-who-gets-all-her-dreams-to-come-true. This was getting ridiculous. Why was she fixated on her lookalike? What was the purpose of these dreams? She was a princess, and would later be a queen. Seriously, the woman seemed to have no problems except for a disapproving father, and that she seemed to take care of when she eloped with Elendil.

Elendil, now there was a puzzle. At times, Buffy could almost swear that she knew him. There were flashes of Angel in him now and then, and in some moments she swore she saw Riley. Buffy was not oblivious to the fact that he seemed to embody her perfect man. Loyal, honorable, a fighter and traveler, devoted, and not threatened by Míriel's future. That last one was a biggie. He knew that his wife would be a great Queen, and yet he didn't seem to care. In that way he wasn't at all like Riley, who had been so threatened by her being the Slayer almost from day one.

"Hey."

Buffy sat up, startled to see Dawn in the doorway.

"I think Anya's gonna try to cook," she said. "Wanna come watch the tears and recriminations?"

Buffy could only force a small smile. "Maybe later."

Dawn started to leave, but then paused and said, "Thanks."

Looking up, Buffy asked, "For what?"

"You know. Pretty much everything."

Sarcastically, the Slayer answered, "Yeah. I'm doin' a great job."

"You are," Dawn said with pure conviction in her voice.

"I'm the Slayer," Buffy scoffed. "The Chosen One. All mythic and defender-y. Evil nasties are supposed to flee from me. Not the other way around."

"You're not fleeing," Dawn replied. "You're ... moving at a brisk pace."

"Quaintly referred to in some cultures as the Big Scaredy Runaway. No honor in it, that's for sure."

Dawn closed the door and walked over to sit across from Buffy. "It's the most amazing thing anyone's ever done for me."

"It just keeps coming. Glory…Riley…Tara…Mom," Buffy suddenly felt exhausted. Heroes weren't supposed to feel like this. They were supposed to have the answers, to be proactive. Right now, she felt as though she was barely two steps from collapsing.

"I know," Dawn said soothingly. "But there's a bright side."

"There is?"

"At least things can't get any crazier. Right?"

Suddenly, an arrow shot through the wall by Buffy's head, startling them both and causing them to jump. Dawn looked horrified, but Buffy looked almost amused.

With a small smile, Buffy commented, "You know this is your fault for saying that."


	6. Chapter Five

_Home is behind, the world ahead,  
And there are many paths to tread  
Through shadows to the edge of night,  
Until the stars are all alight.  
Then world behind and home ahead,  
We'll wander back to home and bed.  
Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,  
Away shall fade! Away shall fade!_

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, Three Is Company, The Fellowship of the Ring_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

After the magical barrier was up, encircling the derelict gas station in which they hid, Buffy and Xander tied the King Arthur wanna-be to the pole in the back room.

It was time for interrogation.

Spike, Dawn, and Xander all stood by watching. Buffy had been staring the renaissance re-enactor down for a full minute, biding her time. She knew that if she could get him to call this off—and he definitely looked like the one in charge—maybe they could get away and still keep ahead of Glory.

"You sure Scarface here can habla the English?" Spike asked, breaking into her thoughts.

"He understands me," she turned to the knight. "Don't you?"

"You were warned we would return, Slayer," he spat, looking at her with contempt.

Buffy nearly laughed. So much had happened since Sir Wants-to-fight had ambushed her behind the Magic Box. Dawn had discovered she was the Key, her mother had died. It felt like years since that night. "Took you long enough," she said. "What are you supposed to be, some kind of chief?"

The solider sneered at her, "General."

"General," Buffy repeated, rolling the word around in her mouth. He looked so much like one of the King's Men. "In charge of what, getting captured?"

"You do not frighten me, child," he said contemptuously. He then looked at Dawn with hate etched into his face. "The instrument of chaos must be destroyed."

Buffy angrily came forward and put her hands on both sides of his face threateningly. "Look at her that way again, and she will be the last thing you ever see."

She then let go and stepped back.

"As I've been told," the General said with an ironic smirk, before it faded away, "you protect the Key of the Beast."

"It's not that simple," Buffy said softly.

"Yes," he answered. "The Key has been transformed, given…breath, life. Yet, this makes no difference. The Key is the link. The link must be severed. Such is the will of God."

Buffy wanted nothing more that to kill him in that moment. Dawn was innocent, and he was advocating her murder! "She doesn't remember anything about being this Key you're all looking for," Buffy ground out with some desperation. "The only thing that she remembers is growing up with a mother, and a sister that love her. What kind of god would demand her life for something that she has no control over?"

Buffy's voice softened to pleading. "We are not your enemy. Tell your men to stand down."

The General looked for a moment as if he would comply, but then his gaze strayed to Dawn and he hardened once more. "No."

"It is not her fault! She's human now!" Buffy felt as if each word he spoke was a body blow. She didn't know how much more she could stand.

The General's face though showed no signs of conceding. "The Key is too dangerous," he said, "to be allowed to exist. No matter what form it has been _pressed_ into."

* * *

Buffy was certain she had never been so tired in her life. Exhaustion seemed to have suffused every pore of her body, leaving nothing behind but fatigue. But even more than that, there was a tiredness of her spirit that was worse.

Sure, there had been moments in her life before that had been horrible. Learning about the prophecy of her death at the hands of the Master sprang to mind. Or losing Angel to the monster within. But then, it had seemed as though she wasn't done yet. There had still been fight in her, even when she walked to her death in the cavern that housed the Master, crossbow in hand.

Now, she was quite certain she had no fight left.

It was all coming to a head. Soon, either the clerics would punch a hole in the barrier or Glory would find them. They wouldn't survive this, and it looked as though Giles would be the first causality.

Sitting down by the former librarian's unconscious body, Buffy took his left hand in hers and rested her forehead against their joined fingers.

She only closed her eyes for a minute.

* * *

_3219, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

Their hands were intertwined as they stood before the throne. The King's gaze was thunderous as he clutched his scepter, and he looked at his daughter as if he didn't know her. Míriel trembled, but Elendil stood straight and tall, looking the King of Númenor in the eye and not backing down.

"I, by my good will and faith in your obedience, allowed you to go to Forostar for these twenty years in the belief you went there for peace from my Court. Little did I then know that treachery lay in your bosom." Tar-Palantir's voice was cold, and there was no pity in his gaze. "I now am to understand that not only did you receive Elendil, son of Amandil, traitor to the throne there against my will, but you have married him as well? _Úcarnet nin_!"

"It was no betrayal, _Atar_, I simply followed my heart," Míriel said formally. "There is more. Elendil and I—"

Elendil's grasp on her hand became painful, and stopped her suddenly from finishing her sentence. The fear in his eyes was very real, and he looked from her towards her father, causing Míriel to follow his gaze. What she saw in her father's face robbed her of breath.

"Please, my King," Míriel said falling to her knees. "I beseech you. I beg for your mercy and for my husband as well. We did not mean to displease you, and now beg your pardon."

"Mercy," Tar-Palantir murmured, rolling the word around in his mouth. "Mercy you say. Mercy upon my disobedient daughter and her defiler."

"_Atarinya_, please!"

"So be it," the King intoned. "Here is my pronouncement. Elendil, you are forthwith banished from my halls and Númenor itself for a period of twenty years. It is only due to the love I bear your father that allows you to yet be suffered to live for this treasonous act."

Elendil bowed. "My King is generous indeed."

Tar-Palantir then turned to Míriel. "As for you, my unfilial daughter, as King of Númenor and presiding over all High Courts and Offices, I hereby annul your marriage to Elendil, son of Amandil, immediately."

"_Atar_, no!" Míriel cried. "You don't understand, it's not just—"

"Say no more, my wife," Elendil whispered in her ear, "Lest greater consequences fall on those we love best."

"You are dismissed, scion of the house of Valandil."

The King then motioned to the guards stationed at the wall, and they immediately came forward and stood flanking the heir of Amandil.

"_Atto_! No!" Míriel screamed out.

Elendil could do naught but bow to his king and allow the soldiers to lead him out, trying vainly to catch one last look of his love as he was forced from the hall.

But Míriel would not let it end like this. Without a word to her father, she raced after the soldiers and ran down the corridors, her skirts and golden hair flying behind her.

"Wait! Wait! The King's Heir orders you to stop!" Míriel screamed out, which finally stopped the soldiers in their tracks.

"My lady, we must follow the King's orders," the Captain on the left said to her.

"And I shall allow you to fulfill them," she said. "But first I wish to speak to Elendil. You have my word that after, I will allow you to take him and depart."

The soldiers looked to each other before the captain nodded, letting Elendil go and stepping back enough for them to speak in privacy.

Immediately, Míriel rushed into his arms. "This changes nothing," she whispered. "Nothing. I shall always be your wife in my heart, and that is the only place that matters."

"This I know," he murmured back. "And I never doubted it for a moment. All the oaths we swore, and all the bonds between us…these are things that can never be severed, not even with the ending of the world." Elendil cupped her face before kissing her lightly. "Even if Númenor were to fall into the sea tomorrow, my love for you would endure."

Míriel began to cry, but nodded bravely. "He is not going to let us meet again; I can feel it. I will be bound in this palace for the rest of my days."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Elendil said softly. "You could come with me."

"But my father—"

"He only said I was banished, not that you were under house arrest."

Míriel did cry then, realizing the horrible future that was now before them. "I can't! You were right to keep me silent before. Right now my father only thinks that he knows all, if he finds out—"

Elendil placed a hand over her mouth and then looked to the guards anxiously. "I know, _Glorfinriel_, I know." Touching her under the chin and gave her a sad smile. "I am afraid that you will bear the brunt of his displeasure now. Never did I mean for this to happen." He then smiled wryly, his eyes pained. "'Cold is the life of a mariner's wife.'"

"You have my heart," she whispered.

"And you have mine," he replied.

"Give all in Andúnië my love," Míriel spoke, "And take all of our house with you to sea, and keep them there until we might have spring again."

"This I swear," he said softly. "The safety of our house shall be my most sacred charge. Now, courage, little firebird. I shall return."

"Until that day, my face shall be turned ever towards the sea."

* * *

_3222, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

In the corridor, behind the two heavy iron doors which kept Tar-Minyatur's Hall from view, Míriel, daughter of the King, waited for her moment. The city of Armenelos had been feasting for the entire week, despite the attempts of the King's Men to start trouble. It was a great celebration, and all who lived in the City of Kings had been waiting eagerly for this day.

The day she was formally declared her father's heir.

The ceremony should have been performed five years before, upon her one hundredth birthday, but Míriel had been in Forostar then, and after she came back she had delayed it as long as possible before her father put his foot down.

It felt like a betrayal of Elendil.

She could feel no joy at the idea of being formally declared the King's Heir. She wanted no part of the title that had brought her so much suffering. Even now, part of her wanted to refuse the Sceptre and let Calion have his day, it was only those who would suffer such a thing with her, and be robbed of their birthright, that stayed her hand. Elendil was depending on her to be strong, and she could not let him down now.

"You look pensive."

Míriel turned to see her father standing behind her. "You should be enthroned already, _Atarinya_."

"Perhaps I would be if I could be convinced that my daughter would walk into the Hall and look like the future Queen she is, rather than a prisoner being transported to her execution," Tar-Palantir answered.

"I can feel no joy in this, and so my face reflects none," Míriel answered firmly. "If you wanted me to be happy, you shouldn't have stolen my husband Elendil and my life from me."

"_Fó_! Speak not that man's name in my presence. You are lucky I have not spread word of his deed among the people. If they knew he was a defiler of women—"

"He defiled nothing," Míriel snapped back. "We plighted our troth, and then married in accordance to all that is proper, save your consent. What he took from me was freely given, as any wife might give her husband."

"He does not deserve you, daughter," Tar-Palantir commented.

"It is I who am unworthy of him," his daughter responded. "From the moment I have come into his life, I have placed it into upheaval, and yet he loves me still. That is a gift beyond recompense."

The King turned to her then, gently taking her shoulders and turning her to face him. "I shall never cease to be amazed by the awesome power of your heart. That you can love a man so greatly speaks well of you, but it is now time, daughter, to turn that love into a love for your people. They will one day be yours to guide, and I pray that when that day comes, you will have to wisdom to lead them."

Míriel could not say why, but suddenly there was a great foreboding in her heart.

* * *

The sudden tension on her hand caused Buffy to open her eyes. Looking down, she saw that Giles had opened his eyes. "Hey," she said gently. "You're awake."

"Yes," he gasped, "but not for long, I think."

"I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?" Giles asked.

"We should have stayed," Buffy said. "If we had, none of this would have happened."

"Don't," Giles gasped out. "What you did ... was necessary ... what I've always admired."

"Running away?" Buffy asked with a small smile.

Giles smiled back. "Being able to place your heart ... above all else."

His words echoed her dream so closely that she couldn't speak. Giles's breaths became even more labored, and Buffy felt herself begin to fill with dread.

"I'm so proud of you," Giles managed to say. "You've come so far. You're everything a Watcher—everything I could have hoped for."

Buffy felt tears fill her eyes, and she knew in that moment she could not allow the only father still in her life to depart without a fight. Gently, she placed his hand down and turned towards the witch that was sitting behind her. "Willow."

The redhead looked up.

"Open a door."

* * *

While Ben was tending to Giles, Buffy left them and headed towards the room in the back with the General. As she drew closer, she could hear Xander and Spike arguing.

"—the hacking and slashing's going on, what are you gonna be doing, huh?" Xander was saying.

"Throwing migraines at 'em?"

"Look, we stay here, we all die!" Spike argued. "At least this way, some of us might get—"

"No," Buffy cut in, causing both Spike and Xander to look at her. She could hear no more. "We're all gonna make it. I'm not losing anyone."

Spike sighed and shook his head.

"Check the supplies," Buffy ordered. "See if anyone's hungry."

Once they had both left, the General chuckled. "Dissention in the ranks. Seldom a harbinger of glad tidings."

Buffy glared at him before walking over and backhanding him across the face. "Shut up."

He turned and spat out a spray of blood. "Poor frightened girl," he said pityingly. "You've no idea what you've gotten yourself into."

"Why don't you tell me?"

"Would it make a difference?" When he received no response, he asked, "What do you know of the Beast?"

Buffy thought of all that she knew of Glory, which wasn't much, and said, "Strong. Fast. Hellgod."

"From a dimension of unspeakable torment," the soldier added.

"A demon dimension," Buffy said, having dismissed her theory that Glory's dimension and Míriel's were one and the same. "I know. She ruled with two other hellgods, right?"

"Along with the Beast they were a triumvirate of suffering and despair," the General said. "Ruling with equal vengeance. But the Beast's power grew beyond even what they could conceive. As did her lust for pain and misery. They looked upon her, what she had become...and trembled."

"A god afraid?" Buffy asked, dread filling her further.

"Such was her power," he replied. "They feared she would attempt to seize their dimension for herself, and decided to strike first. A great battle erupted. In the end, they stood victorious over the Beast...barely. She was cast out. Banished to this lower plane of existence, forced to live and eventually die, trapped within the body of a mortal—a newborn male, created as her prison. That is the Beast's only weakness."

Almost to herself, Buffy whispered, "Kill the man...and the god dies."

"Unfortunately, the identity of the human vessel has never been discovered," the General said.

"I don't understand. Now, I've seen Glory. Not a whole lot going on in the hairy chest department."

"You have seen a glimpse of the true Beast," he said. "Her power was too great to be completely contained. She's found a way to escape her mortal prison for brief periods, before her energies are exhausted and she's forced back, into her living cell of meat and bone."

"What about me?"

Buffy turned to see Dawn standing in the doorway.

"What about the Key?" Dawn asked.

"Dawn," Buffy said.

"I want to know," her sister said to her, coming forward.

"The Key…is almost as old as the Beast itself. Where it came from, how it was created—the deepest of mysteries. All that is certain is that its power is absolute. Countless generations of my people have sacrificed their lives in search of it, to destroy it before its wrath could be unleashed."

"But the monks found it first," Dawn stated.

"Yes, and hid it with their magicks," the General agreed.

"Why didn't they just destroy it?" Buffy asked. "If the Key is as dangerous as—"

"Because they were fools," he cut in. "They thought they could harness its power for the forces of light. They failed, and paid with their blood."

"What do I do?" Dawn asked suddenly, sounding slightly maniacal. "What was I created for?"

"You were created to open the gates that separate dimensions. The Beast will use your power to return home and seize control of the hell she was banished from."

Buffy laughed scornfully, causing the General to turn to her in surprise. "That's it? That's Glory's master plan, to go home?"

"You misunderstand," the General said, his face completely serious. Looking back at Dawn, he said, "Once the Key is activated, it won't just open the gates to the Beast's dimension. It's going to open all the gates. The walls separating realities will crumble. Dimensions will bleed into each other. Order will be overthrown and the universe will tumble into chaos. All dark, forever."

The General's eyes bore into Dawn's. "That," he said, "is what you were created for."

Dawn turned and left the room at once, and Buffy turned back to the General. "You shouldn't have said that."

"She wanted to know," he answered, "and she needed to know. If the Dagonites really did make her fully human, then perhaps some twinge of conscious can stop this. She doesn't belong here," he then turned and looked at the Slayer. "And neither, I think, do you."

"What do you mean?" Buffy asked, her voice trembling.

"The Knights of Byzantium are not just a military order, little girl. In the olden days of our order, our sacred charge was to protect Byzantion. That same city was built on a convergence of energy, and had no Slayer to protect it."

"A hellmouth," Buffy said. "You are from a hellmouth."

The General nodded. "The knights protected the city, but without the clerics we were but men. Several demons tried to capitalize on this, killing our holy men one by one. It became clear then, to my people, that we could not rely on the clerics for all our magical forces. Though we have returned in the present time to military strength only, there are some of us who still carry the bloodline of the magic ones. I am one of that number. We have the power to see that which is different than the natural way of things."

"Dawn," Buffy guessed.

"No," he said. "The monks were thorough. I cannot detect anything from her, but you, on the other hand…"

"You sense the Slayer…"

"No," the General said, looking curious. "What I sense from you is nothing like that. Just how old is your soul?"

* * *

"Dawn," Buffy implored, stepping into the small room her sister had secluded herself in.

Dawn was sitting down on a table. "You think it's true?" she asked. "What he said?"

Buffy sighed and walked forward, sitting down next to her sister. "I don't know." And the answer was twofold. She didn't know if what he said was true about Dawn…or what he said about herself.

"Destroyer of the universe," Dawn said idly. "I guess cutting school doesn't seem so bad now, huh?"

"It's not you. You know that."

"But it's in me, isn't it? It's inside me," she said. She then looked at Buffy and asked, "What are we gonna do?"

Buffy put her arm around Dawn's shoulder and pulled her close. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

She promised then to be true to her vow. The rest of the universe could tumble into hell for all she cared. She was going to keep her sister safe.

Even if it was the last thing she ever did.


	7. Chapter Six

_His blade he lifted high in hand,  
and challenging alone did stand  
before the threat of Morgoth's power;  
and dauntless cursed him, hall and tower,  
o'ershadowing hand and grinding foot,  
beginning, end, and crown and root;  
then turned to stride forth down the slope  
abandoning fear, forsaking hope._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lays of Beleriand, The Lay of Leithian_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

There were dead bodies everywhere.

All over the ground were the remnants of Glory's actions, dead knights and clerics dotting the landscape.

And Dawn was gone.

Taken, by the Beast.

Staring at the carnage before her, Buffy's mind broke and she surrendered fully to the visions which had been teasing at the back of her head, until now only coming forth in dreams.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she felt herself dropping to the ground.

And then she knew no more.

* * *

_3250, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

"It is time for you to marry."

Míriel dropped her spoon in surprise, looking up at her father from where she sat. They were in one of the morning chambers of the palace, eating breakfast together as was their custom. Míriel would have preferred to break her fast in her room, and eat all her subsequent meals there as well, but her father had started laying down orders as to her behavior and her daily schedule. This was one of the requirements.

With some derision in her voice, she answered, "Then you had best send out your fastest riders and summon Elendil back from Andúnië."

Tar-Palantir slammed his hand down on the table. "Over thirty years it has been, and still you bend your mind towards him." He began to cough then, suddenly looking very old, leaning back heavily in his chair. In the older days, Míriel would have rushed to his side, but she felt little more than indifference when she looked at her father now. Even the deepest of loves could be lost if it was not cherished.

"Why do you do this, daughter?" he asked, looking at her as if he expected an answer. "Ever do you gaze out to sea, waiting for him to return to you, when you should be thinking of your future. My brother Gimilkhâd is dead, with him gone there is a hole in the King's Men, and they are bereft of leadership. Now is the time to strike," Tar-Palantir said. "Marry, produce an heir. By doing this you will solidify the rightness of your ascension to the throne. The people loved you once. They will welcome your coronation if you secure our line, rather than display indifference to your ascension, as they do now."

"If the people do not want me for their Queen," Míriel asked, "whose fault is that? My misery is ever consuming, and of your infliction. You want me to be glad that soon I shall be Queen, yet I can augur nothing but despair for myself, as always, in the days to come." She then turned her head, her grey eyes flashing as she met her father's gaze. "And, know this, my King. No child shall ever take root in my body that is not Elendil's get."

"And yet, he does not feel the same way," the King replied.

"What are you talking about?" his daughter asked.

"Elendil has married and begotten three children." Pity came over the King's face in that moment, for however he hated her disobedience, he was loathe to cause her pain. "Did you not know, my daughter? Amandil has spoken to me of them. He is a proud grandfather."

"And what," the King's daughter asked softly, turning her face from her father and towards the sea, "did Amandil have to say of them?"

"The eldest is the heir, Isildur. He is followed by a sister, whose name I do not know, and then a brother Anárion. One can only presume that Elendil met some woman on his travels, and his offspring are the result of that. Míriel," he said, "can you not see that this is proof that he is undeserving of you? Such great promises he made to you, and yet he has married again and had sons. He only ever wanted your throne."

Míriel shoved back her chair with a bang. "You know nothing!"

"I know that, as your King and father, I am well within my rights to force you to marry," Tar-Palantir replied.

"An oxen may be led to water, _Atarinya_, but even the Wisest would not be able to force him to drink."

The King sighed. "Will you be ever obstinate? He waits for you not!"

"Is he still married?"

"Amandil did say that the mother died birthing the last child," Tar-Palantir allowed.

"Then my answer remains unchanged," she replied.

* * *

_"…Buffy, you have to get up! Buffy, please! Buffy!"_

* * *

_3255, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

It had come to this, open rebellion in the streets.

War, which had been threatening for decades, had come to Númenor at last.

Her father's death had been the spark that set the kindling alight, and now Armenelos, the City of Kings, was dripping in blood. The threat that had been hanging over the Island of Gift since her father had taken up the Sceptre was now a chilling reality. Gimilkhâd, her uncle, had been a danger to her father, that was certain, but he had lacked the ability to inspire men's hearts.

Something her cousin Calion had in abundance.

He had shocked them all when he returned from his voyages a year ago. Gone was the youth who had been so quick to laugh and smile, ever in close company with Amandil of Andúnië, and in his place was a handsome, yet cold and proud man. His journeys had hardened him, and his adventures and quests had merely whetted his appetite for power.

And the people loved him. He was free in sharing his spoils of war, and he was mighty and great to look upon. He had actively courted their love, so unlike the cold, yet beautiful, daughter of the King.

Calion had only been bidding his time.

And it had come the moment her father had died two weeks before. The King's Men, led by Calion, had immediately begun solidifying their power, and attacking members of the Faithful who had moved back into the capitol city during her father's reign.

Tar-Míriel, the fourth ruling Queen of Númenor, knew he would come for her next.

There was no one left to stand for her, no one left to come. His years of friendship with Amandil had prevented Calion from slaying the lords of Andúnië, but a legion of guards had been sent to the region to subdue all the populace, and it prevented her kinsmen from sending her any aide.

She was quite alone.

* * *

_"Can you hear me? Buffy!"_

_"Buffy!"_

_"Buffy?"_

* * *

_3255, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

Her overthrow, when it came, was swift.

"Well, it looks like that is it, cousin," Calion said, the smirk upon his face lending a cruel taint to his handsome features. "No guards, no help, no hope."

She sat upon her throne, and she knew, deep within her bones that it was the last time she would ever do so.

The rule of Tar-Míriel was ended.

None had come to defend her claim, but then she had expected none. Her cousin was too powerful, too strong. All that would have come for her and fought on her behalf were in his custody now, and even the palace guards no longer defended her.

And yet, for all that, Tar-Míriel wasn't going to surrender her rightful throne without a fight. He may be her cousin, with enormous armies at his disposal, but she was Queen by birth and by the will of Eru Ilúvatar. It was not something she would let pass away lightly.

"Tar-Míriel, deposed Queen, you have been brought here—"

"I haven't been brought anywhere," she snapped, interrupting her cousin. "This is my throne room, and my palace. You are the stranger here, not I."

Calion laughed. "You always did have spirit, fair one."

"Do not call me that," Míriel snapped.

"And why not?" her cousin asked. "Ever did I call you it. And when we were children together, you did hang upon my words and smiled when endearments did cross my lips."

Míriel looked from him to the men behind him, all rough looking with their hands upon their swords, looking ready for battle. "Time changes many things," she said sardonically.

Her cousin laughed again, and then stepped forward. "Now, cousin, I am here to take the sceptre and the throne, will you hand them over to me, or must I exercise all my powers of persuasion?"

Tar-Míriel's eyes narrowed. "I would not hand the sceptre over to any man, save my own son when it was his turn to claim it. You, son of Gimilkhâd, have no right to the throne."

Calion's good mood suddenly evaporated, and the Queen swore she could feel the chill in the air. "No right? NO RIGHT?" he screamed. "The throne is mine! Mine! It should have come to me by the rights of succession had our grandfather had his way. Oh, yes! Did you know, cousin? Ar-Gimilzôr wanted to leave his throne to my father, but the Council of the Sceptre forbade it! It is mine!"

"It is not yours," Tar-Míriel said. "You, like your father before, are nothing but a lesser son of greater sires. And know this, if you think to rule, you shall do naught but come to your own ruin, and Númenor with you."

"I grow tired of your obstinacy, cousin."

"My heart bleeds for you," Tar-Míriel said sarcastically. "I will never surrender the sceptre. You will not achieve it, except by my death. And then how will you lead my people with my blood on your hands? They will not follow a King who murdered his predecessor, the rightful Queen."

Calion stared at her. "So be it." Turning to one of his men, he said, "Bring him."

The guard departed, but quickly returned, dragging a man with him.

Míriel gasped. It was Elendil, and he was in chains and gagged.

"Calion! Stop! What are you doing?"

Calion had his men drag Elendil forward, and then throw him to the ground at Calion's feet. Seizing him by his hair, Calion then pulled a dagger from his belt and held it against the neck of the son of Amandil.

"Stop it!" Míriel screamed out, standing from her throne and running down the steps of the dais, until she was standing in front of her cousin. His height dwarfed her up close, much like Elendil always had, but she did not allow herself to be possessed of fear.

It was her greatest dream, turned into her greatest nightmare. She was finally seeing Elendil again, only it was at the moment of his death. She could not imagine a fate worse.

Her eyes met the eyes of her love then, and she knew in that moment that she would willingly go to her death now, if it prevented him from also dying. She loved Elendil still, would love him always. Any price was worth paying, if it but meant that he would live.

"Amandil has ever been your friend," Míriel cried out desperately, trying in vain to think of something to say that would stay his hand. "Do you now mean to kill his only son?"

"That, _Tarinya_, depends on you," Calion said, smiling at her in that twisted way of his. "You are right in saying that Amandil is my friend, and yet I think even he will absolve me of blame when he learns that the choice of his son's death was removed from my hands."

"What do you mean? Speak plainly, cousin," the Queen demanded, trying to tamp down on her dread.

"Here he is, your beloved Elendil," Calion taunted. "The man you married without your father's consent."

At her widened eyes, Calion laughed. "Oh, I am well informed, cousin. My father was kept apprised of the news of the court through various spies, and even that which was kept the most secret was soon uncovered."

Tears filled Míriel's eyes, and they quickly began to spill over her cheeks, dripping down her face and staining her gown.

"I know well how you have pined for him over the long years," he taunted. "And yet, what's this?" Calion dug the dagger into Elendil's neck, causing ruby red drops to drip down the blade. "I think, cousin, that he has not been as faithful to you."

"Stop it!" she screamed.

Calion smirked. "Married another woman? Produced children by her?" He clucked his tongue at Elendil. "For shame, kinsman. Is that how you treat the Golden Lady of Armenelos? The King's daughter? The woman you professed to love?"

"Anything he did has caused no harm to you, Calion," Míriel pleaded. "He is innocent!"

"Innocent! He touched that which is mine, there is no innocence in him," Calion spat.

"I don't understand," Míriel said, looking at Calion with confusion.

"Don't you?" he asked, his voice softening. "You know, you must know, that it was always intended to be us. From the time we were children together, running in these very halls. I loved you then, as I love you know. We were designed for each other, _Mírielinya_. Your father had no living son, because it was always I who was meant to become his son. We were meant to be married, fair one."

Míriel's feet began to back away, almost against her will. She had no desire to offend Calion when he had a knife to her beloved's throat, but his words filled her with repulsion. "Cousin, you do not know what it is you are saying. Any such union would be accursed. Forbidden by all laws of Númenor, and of decency. It is illegal, wrong."

"What's wrong is that you ever allowed this filth to touch you!" Calion screamed out, digging the knife deeper.

"No, please!" She cried out.

He pulled back then, and looked at her once more. "So, my fair one, now we come down to it. What follows now is your choice, and in your hands."

His cold eyes turned on his cousin, and he looked at her as if he could see deeply into her. Míriel wondered if he could. Could he see down to the very deepest parts of her? The parts that were weak and fragile, and would let him have anything he wanted, if only Elendil might live.

"What would you do? For his life, my Queen? What are you willing to give me to prevent me from sending him to the halls of his father's?"

There was no question of her answer; she could only respond in one way.

"Anything."

"Your hand first, I think," Calion declared. "And the throne second."

Míriel felt ill. All of her dreams, all of her plans for a life with Elendil were gone in that moment. She had wanted to badly to be with him, to make her home with him once more. For him to be her consort in Armenelos, with Isildur and Anárion their most valued counselors. Or give up the throne and return with him to Andúnië, and there make their home with all the members of their house about them. Those dreams, which had once been like petals on the wind, now were ashes.

Could she do it? Could she marry Calion, and know then that she must lie in an incestuous bed? Could she spend her days with him, knowing that he would return Númenor to the way it had been when her grandfather ruled? Could she sit back and watch the Faithful persecuted once more? Could she watch as the hearts of her people turned away from the One, Eru Ilúvatar, and back to sin? Without her compliance, Calion could never hope to hold the Sceptre. Could she turn her back on all that she believed in, merely to save the life of one man?

Míriel looked then into Elendil's eyes, which were pinning her down with their intensity. Through the gag, she could hear the muffled sounds of him yelling, "Nay!"

In the end, there was never really any choice. Her course was decided long ago. She knew now, that she had always been headed towards this moment. Perhaps from the moment she met Elendil. Or perhaps the moment she had been born a girl, and not a boy. She was always coming here, to where death waited for her.

"I shall give up the sceptre," she said softly. "And I will go into exile, only spare his life."

Calion laughed. "This is not a negotiation, cousin. You will give up the throne, and you will marry me…or he dies. Now, do I have your agreement, or are the Halls of Tar-Minyatur to run red with the blood of the scion of Andúnië?"

"Yes, you have my agreement," she whispered, hanging her head.

Calion released the dagger then, throwing Elendil to the floor. With his hands in handcuffs, he fell on his shoulder with a grunt. "Take him," he directed his men, "and send him back to Andúnië, from whence he came."

"And no harm is to come to him, or any of his house," Tar-Miriel added.

Calion nodded to the guards to show his agreement at her words, and they then took Elendil and left.

Míriel tried to watch him leave, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face, one last time, but the guards were too quick. In a moment, he was gone…and she was left with her tormentor.

"Call forth the holy man," Calion said, his face live with excitement.

In a trice, it was done. They married in the Adûnaic fashion, exchanging not more than vows, and Míriel forcibly promising to obey him. No gifts were given, for that was an Elvish custom, and such things had no place in the new Númenor.

After the holy man had gone, Calion assembled the Court, summoning all the nobles and making a public declaration of their marriage.

Once the announcement was made, Calion turned to his new wife and said with a maniacal grin. "Well, little cousin and wife, I believe you have something for me."

Without a word, Míriel reached up and removed the diamond, bound in silver fillet, which she had worn upon her brow since taking the throne two weeks before.

"At last," Calion said softly, allowing her to place the fillet on his head, but he did not wait for her to give him the sceptre, taking it forcibly.

A terrible and frightening look came over his face as he held the sceptre reverently. He then turned and ascended up the steps, and settled on the carven throne, becoming the twenty-fourth King of Númenor, usurping Míriel's rule entirely.

Seeing Míriel just standing there, looking at him, his lip curled up. She needed to be humbled, and what better time to do it than when the whole Court was assembled. "Do you just stand there, wife," he asked loudly, "showing no respect before your King?"

Hate filled Míriel's mind, but she knew that Elendil's life depended on her obedience now. With heavy heart, she curtsied and bowed deeply to the usurper, the new King.

"Hail, Tar-Calion," she said loudly, rising from her obsequience as fast as she could.

"That name we like not," Calion declared, looking down at Míriel and all the Court. "From hence forth, let it here be declared, that we are to be called Ar-Pharazôn, and our fair Queen and wife to be called Ar-Zimraphel. Done are the elvish ways, the ways of the Spies of the Valar, and we would not suffer any remembrance of them to endure."

Míriel had no choice then but to ascend the dais and stand by his side, taking the spot she had once stood in when her father was King. She would have given anything to return to that time, and once again be safe in her father's keeping.

The crier of the Court came forward then, banging his staff on the ground three times. "May long life be granted to their most High and Excellent of sovereigns, Ar-Pharazôn the King, and Ar-Zimraphel, his Queen."

The entire court erupted in cheers, and it took all the strength that Míriel possessed to keep from crying.

The irony of the moment did not escape her. It had been her father's greatest fear that Elendil would usurp her rule.

He had feared the wrong kinsman.


	8. Chapter Seven

_Where now the horse and rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?  
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?  
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?  
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?  
They have passed like rain on the mountainside, like a wind in the meadow;  
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, The King of the Golden Hall, The Two Towers_

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

_"Buffy!"_

_"She can't…brain-dead…still Buffy…in there, right?"_

_"Losing Dawn…Buffy's … through ... pushed…too far."_

_"Buffy!"_

_"…people…Slayer strength… time … Buffy!"_

_"…you insane? We could be…damage here… kill her?"_

* * *

_3260, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

They were all assembled in the throne room. Ar-Pharazôn sat in his carven throne, and by his side stood his unwilling consort. Before them were amassed all the members of the Council, and a few mariners whose knowledge was crucial, as they had just returned from the land in the East.

"Sauron hates the land of Westernesse, my King," Amandil said, looking at Ar-Pharazôn. "He will stop at nothing to see Númenor wiped from the face of Middle-earth."

"It is true, my King," Anborn the Mariner said, coming to stand by Amandil's side. "For I have just returned from Umbar with my fleet, and there I did see Sauron putting forth his might and a whole host of men and monsters following him. He is striking first at the cities on the coasts, knowing as he does, that the mariners of Númenor ever depend on the safety of those harbors."

"There is more, my liege," Thorodûr of Ondosto, a member of the Council of the Sceptre, said. "Sauron has taken the title of…King of Men." The silence of the Hall was absolute as he spoke. "His purpose is to relieve us of our ports and havens, driving us fully into the sea. There is even talk that he means to destroy Númenor, itself."

"There can be no doubt," the King began slowly, "that all our minds must now bend towards war. Sauron means to meddle with the Heir of Eärendil. I will not have it!" he yelled out, slamming his hand upon the arm of his throne. "Summon all your men; call forth all your hosts. We will sail forth and show this…King of Men…that the King of Númenor will suffer no rival!"

The men then bowed to their King, before leaving in haste. The Councilors would have to travel to all five regions of the island to summon all the men needed for this voyage.

Amandil was the last to leave, bowing to the King in a shallow manner. Though he was ever a faithful servant of the Sceptre and whoever bore it, his sympathies were much with the Queen, rather than his former friend and companion who had usurped her throne.

Míriel hurried down the steps of the dais to speak with him before he left, but the voice of her husband stopped her from doing more than touching Amandil's hand.

"Stay but a little, wife. I will have need of you."

Amandil looked at her with some sympathy, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. "Courage, my Queen," he whispered. "Strength now."

"Do not let Elendil sail forth," she whispered back desperately. "Whatever you do, prevent him in that. I fear Pharazôn would use his presence for some dark purpose."

"We are of one mind then," Amandil said, before bowing and departing.

"And what do you two talk of so secretly," Ar-Pharazôn asked as he stepped down from the throne, once Amandil was gone.

"It is no secret," Míriel said. "I asked him to talk you out of your scheme of war, but as ever Amandil is your faithful servant."

Pharazôn—for she always called him that in her thoughts now. Not Calion, never Calion—walked over to the banquet table, and plucked a grape from one of the trays and plopped it in his mouth, before chuckling. "How much that must sting you, my lovely one. The man was once your lord and father, but still he always defers to me, your husband, and loves me better."

"It is no more than I deserve," Míriel said, purposely drawing her husband's attention away from Amandil's loyalties. "After what I did to his son, I can expect little from him. His kindness is surprising enough."

"As ever, you are blind to your own self worth."

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," the Queen replied.

"Your beauty, my Queen, would make a man forgive any sin you committed against him." Coming near to her, he brushed her golden hair back from her face. When she flinched, he said, "Even now you shrink from me. Am I not your lord? Your husband? Are you not bound by duty and fidelity to try to love me, even a little?"

"You did not ask for my love, Pharazôn," Míriel said quietly, turning her face away. "Only my body and my throne."

"Yes," he said, "and in those duties you have been ever faithful." Reaching out, he touched the skin of her lower belly through her dress. "Soon you will grow ripe with my son. Soon, you shall bear me a boy so great that all of Númenor shall love him."

Míriel pulled away. "But for now you go to war, and no child shall be born of my body without a father near."

"Yes," the King said, for it was the custom on Númenor to delay children until both parents could be present. "But when I return, I will beget a son on you, wife."

Dread filled the Queen's mind, but all she said was, "Until that day, my King."

* * *

_"We…do something…can't just sit…watching… waste time with …likes it rough."_

_"Buffy's…Glory has Dawn…real soon…use…tear down…barrier…dimension…fight… world ends?"_

_"…Sunnydale…hospital…find Glory…still there…stupid…"_

_"…will you do?"_

_"…help Buffy."_

_"Big day…big day."_

* * *

_3262, the Second Age, Andúnië, Númenor_

Míriel had not been to Andúnië in years. In the early years of Númenor, it had been the biggest city on the island. Often had the elves of Tol Eressëa brought their ships into the Bay of Andúnië and given gifts to the people of Andustar. But that time had long passed. With the rise of Armenelos as the more populous city and the slow turning of the Númenóreans hearts against the Eldar, the bay had been empty of those Elven ships for some time. Now they only anchored Númenórean ships of War.

Her father had been ever departing for of the Western part of Númenor. Often did he stop in Andúnië for rest before proceeding on to the ancient tower of King Minastir, which was built upon the hill of Oromet, very near to Andúnië. From that tower, he would look towards west, always hoping to see the white ships of the Eldar upon the sea.

But they never came.

It was there that Míriel went now.

With the King off to war, it had been surprisingly easy to twist her minders (as she thought of the ladies in waiting she had been assigned by her husband) to her way of thinking, and they certainly had no objections to taking a two week sojourn to Andúnië and Oromet. It was, after all, the most beautiful city in Númenor, and on the water, and all Númenóreans seemed to have a love of the sea.

When the company arrived at the house of the Lords of Andúnië, the servants of the house immediately ushered in the royal procession. One servant, who Míriel recognized as Ellawen, she pulled aside. "See to it that my ladies are well cared for," she said, "and tell me the way to your master's son."

"Lord Elendil is in the library, my Queen," Ellawen said softly. "Down the corridor, to the right, facing the sea."

Míriel smiled at the girl and then silently departed the receiving room, unnoticed by her ladies who never gave much thought to serving her anyway.

She walked in measured tread down the walkway, trying to restore calm to her frantically beating heart. Taking deep breaths of the fresh, sea air helped, but Míriel knew that seeing Elendil was the only real cure. He had been from her sight for seven years, and it seemed that time constantly dragged along, never stopping as her loneliness increased.

Her steps were nearly silent when she entered the room, but he turned anyway and looked at her. He looked ever the same. His hair had no grey yet, and his face was unlined. He looked, perhaps, more grave than before, but still very much the handsome man she had married. Except, when she looked into his eyes, she saw no longer the love which had once resided there.

"I thought to greet you at the gate," Elendil said suddenly, breaking the silence. "But I found that I had not the proper words to do so."

"You look well," Míriel said softly.

"So you do," Elendil said, chuckling mirthlessly. "The fairest lady of Númenor, now its fairest Queen. Marriage agrees with you, _Âri_."

"Don't call me that," Míriel said, flinching at the sound of being called Queen in Adûnaic.

"Why ever not?" Elendil asked coldly. "You made certain I could not call you my Queen in _Nimriyê_. No, that language is quite forbidden to us now, thanks to you."

"Elendil," Míriel said softly, "I did not come here to fight."

"Then why did you come here?" he asked. "Because I am quite at a loss."

"How can you ask that? I came to see you, to see—"

"There is nothing in this house for you, Ar-Zimraphel," Elendil said, his voice like a sword. "You should not have come."

"So you feel nothing for me, then?" Míriel asked, her voice turning piteous.

"I would not debase myself by feeling anything for another man's wife," Elendil said calmly, turning away from her.

Tears filled Míriel's eyes as she nodded. "I understand, my lord. I shall trouble you no more."

When she turned to leave, she was shocked to see two young men and a woman standing in the doorway. Her gasp caused Elendil to turn, and he grimaced at seeing them there.

"Ar-Zimraphel, you remember my son Isildur. May I present my second son Anárion, and my daughter Mírwen?"

Míriel nodded at them, smiling as she blinked back her tears. "I am so pleased to meet you all again."

"_Atarinya_," Mírwen said, lapsing and accidentally addressing her father in Quenya, "You did not tell us that the Queen was here."

"I am sure she is only passing through, sister," Isildur said, looking towards Míriel with coldness in his eyes. "She could have nothing to do with us here that required our presence."

The Queen flinched involuntarily, trying not to let her hurt show. Gathering her courage, she looked at Isildur and said, "That is where you are wrong, _hîn_. I do have business with your sister."

Elendil looked slightly panicked for a moment, but then smoothed his face into a mask of disinterest. "She is just a girl, Ar-Zimraphel, there can be nothing you need to say to her."

"On the contrary," Míriel said, extending her hand. "Come here, young one."

Mírwen crossed the floor of the library to come to the Queen's side, ignoring the curiosity on Anárion's face, and the edge of panic on her father's and older brother's.

When she had reached her side, the Queen reached under her sleeve and removed a piece of jewelry that glinted in the light. "Here, take it. It is a gift."

Mírwen reached out and took the bracelet, looking at it in surprise. "Why this bears the symbols of our house! It is one of our family bracelets!"

Míriel smiled at her obvious joy at such a present. "It is mithril, given to Silmarien, by her nephew Tar-Aldarion. It was commissioned by Gil-galad, who is still High King of the Noldor." Míriel looked up then and met Elendil's eyes, repeating the words he once said to her. "It has been ever worn by the lady of the house of Valandil."

With a smile at Mírwen, the Queen said, "And I think that would be you."

"Oh, thank you," Mírwen said, grinning. She then sobered, and tilted her head. "But wait, how do you have it?"

"Lady Inzilbêth, daughter of Lindórië of Andúnië, was my grandmother," Míriel said, allowing Mírwen to believe that was how she had come by the bracelet.

"I have never received something so fine in my life," the young girl said. "I shall treasure it."

Mírwen's enthusiasm was touching, but mostly it made Míriel feel extremely old. How long had it been since she had felt such simple joy? Such simple pleasure at a freely given gift? How long had it been since she was once that girl who used to sneak out of the King's House in boys clothes and race her horse across the plains below the Meneltarma?

"Just wear it always, and pass it on to your daughter one day, when you have one," Míriel said softly. "That would bring me great happiness."

"Oh, I shall," Mírwen said, her eyes bright before clasping it on her wrist.

Míriel smiled, reaching out and tucking the young girl's hair behind her ear. "It suits you."

Then, with the greatest pains, she turned toward Elendil again, and said, "My lord, I thank you for the hospitality of your house, however, the rest I have received here has left me quite refreshed and I feel equal to the task of pressing on to Oromet this afternoon. My blessings upon you, and on your house."

"Thank you, my Queen," Elendil said quietly, looking at her with searching eyes, before bowing.  
Míriel softly rubbed her thumb on Mírwen's cheek in a gesture of blessing before leaving the room with one last long glance at Isildur and Anárion.

It was only when she reached the privacy of the corridor that Míriel, highest lady of Númenor, allowed herself to feel the full weight of what she had lost, and what should have been hers.

* * *

_"Will?"_

_"…don't turn…for asking, but ... what if…across Ben?"_

_"…don't think …what Buffy…now."_

_"Well, yeah…not one…be Glory."_

_"…you mean?"_

_"You…Ben…Glory."_

_"Ben's with Glory?"_

_"…together?"_

_"No…Ben… Glory…Glory's Ben…the same."_

_"…remember?"_

* * *

_3265, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

"Amandil, son of Nùmendil, you are hereby dismissed from our services, your lands and titles in Andúnië forfeit to the Sceptre, for the maintenance of our navy. The liberty of your movements we will allow you, but know that your council is not welcome here, nor have you place anymore on our Council of the Sceptre."

A hush had fallen over the hall of Tar-Minyatur. The entire court was assembled to see Amandil's public shame, but rather than rejoice in his fall, many of the courtiers felt fear enter their hearts. Though they rejoiced in the might of Sauron and the return to the old ways, the fact that Ar-Pharazôn, the King, would dismiss his kinsman and dear friend from his side at the behest of the Dark One, filled them with fear. None of them dare oppose him not, lest they find a much harsher fate waiting for them than that of Amandil's.

Court was so different now, even from the early days of Ar-Pharazôn's reign. After the King triumphed over Sauron at Umbar, he had taken him as a hostage back to Númenor. Only, to Míriel's mind, Sauron seemed pleased to be there. Within three years he had risen from hostage to honored guest and council, and Ar-Pharazôn ever hung on the words, taken as wisdom, which came from Sauron's lips.

At the base of the dais, Míriel's heart filled with sorrow. No man deserved to be cast aside for nothing more than faithful service, and Amandil least of all. With no small amount of anger in her eyes, she looked up at the throne where Ar-Pharazôn sat gravely, but the figure next to him did not share his gravity. No, Sauron the Dark Maia was smirking openly, delighting in the downfall of Amandil, whom he hated.

Many of the people who stood in the hall were impressed by Sauron's beauty and honeyed words. They flattered him and called him Mairon and Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, and ever courted the favor of the Maia. The Queen, though, could see the darkness within his heart. Like Amandil, she had no fondness or love for the presence of the hostage of Ar-Pharazôn, and wished with all her heart he would depart. His continued presence was like a blanket of darkness upon Númenor, and the only thing bright about him was the gold ring which gleamed upon his finger.

After the Court dispersed, Míriel followed the retreating form of Amandil and stayed his departure in the hallway.

"I wish," she said to him when they were alone, "that this had not happened. I think Ar-Pharazôn will find little joy in his present path, and that which seems like wisdom will eventually be shown to lead to his ruin."

"You are wise beyond your years, my Queen," Amandil said softly, gently putting his hands on her shoulders in an avuncular manner. He looked so old now, his brow was furrowed constantly and his hair turning grey. "I have watched you grow from a small child to a graceful woman, and no father in Númenor could be prouder, _yelya_."

"How can you say that," she asked. "When this is all my fault?"

"I do not believe that," Amandil said softly. "I know that my son has born anger in his heart, much of it more inwardly turned then you might think, and that this might make you think he loves you not. And that, perhaps, I, in loving my son, cannot love you as well." Amandil cupped her face, giving her a sad smile. "But know this, _Tarinya_, you will ever dwell in my heart as my daughter, and I know that my son lives because of you."

"But look at what has happened!"

"You could not, even in your wildest dreams, have known this would come to pass," he replied gently. "Take the blame you deserve, and then no more."

Míriel nodded, letting him kiss her goodbye on her forehead. "Where shall you go now?"

"I will collect my kin, and what other remnants there are of Faithful left in Andúnië, and then make for Rómenna. At least in this, perhaps Ar-Pharazôn is not yet as gone as you might believe."

"What do you mean?" she asked, looking at him in confusion.

"He only confiscated my lands in Andúnië," Amandil said, "while my old friend the King knows well that I have extensive lands in Rómenna and other places on Númenor. After all, he was once my guest at my house in Rómenna for a year complete."

She gave a watery laugh, and then forced a smile for his sake.

"Be safe, _yelya_," he said, embracing her once more. "I am afraid that I might never again look upon your face, but I will remember its beauty for the rest of my days. Fare you well."

Míriel knew in that moment that she would see Amandil once more, but said nothing. She merely kissed his brow and said, "Goodbye, _Atarinya_. _Namárië_."


	9. Chapter Eight

_O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay!  
O rowan mine, I saw your shine upon a summer's day,  
Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft:  
Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bore aloft!  
O rowan dead, upon your head your hair is dry and grey;  
Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled forever and a day._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, Treebeard, The Two Towers_

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

_"…do remember…everyone…?_

_"Glory…doctor…beast…separate…one body…you remember."_

_"So…saying ... Ben and Glory..."_

* * *

_3266, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

It was late. The Queen had been on the verge of sleep, when suddenly a hand covered her mouth and prevented her from breathing. Her eyes shot open, but all she could perceive was a figure in the dark, hidden from her sight by night's cloak.

"Do not scream, my Queen. I am going to release your mouth, and then we are going to talk. Is that clear?"

Míriel nodded her head, and when the hand was taken away, the sound of a tinderbox being struck was heard, and then she could see by light of a lone candle.

"Isildur!" she gasped out. Her eyes flew across his face and form, seeing in him the likeness of her beloved Elendil. And yet, some concern struck her when she saw the common clothes he was wearing, and the sword upon his belt. "What are you doing here? It is forbidden for you to be here! The Faithful cannot enter the Court on pain of death! If Ar-Pharazôn or the Dark One sees you…"

"I have no intention of being caught by your husband, or the Dark One," the youth said slightingly. "I must speak with you."

Míriel nodded, getting up from the bed and reaching for her dressing gown. Once it was knotted, she took the candle and led Isildur over to the chaise in the corner of the room.

"My grandfather was very upset, two days before last," Isildur began, once he had sat down. "He was talking in quiet distraction, telling old tales, and speaking of the Trees of Valinor. After a long while, my father finally calmed him and my grandfather was then able to say that he heard that Nimloth, the White Tree of the Kings, was soon to be hewn and burned. Is this true?"

Tears filled the Queen's eyes that such dark days were hers. "Yes," she said haltingly. "Surely on your journey hither you spied the construction on the left banked hill of the city. The Dark One is building a great temple there, dedicated to that Fallen Vala ever he serves. I believe that he intends Nimloth to be the first sacrifice to the fires."

"Has the tree yet been felled?" Isildur asked anxiously.

"No," was the Queen's reply. "But it will happen presently, I am sure of it."

"Then," Isildur said firmly. "I need your help, Ar-Zimraphel."

Míriel flinched. "Please, Isildur. If you will not call me the name I long to hear from your lips, at least call me by the one my father gave me."

"I could not," Isildur said softly, before conceding, "my Queen."

"That will have to do," the Queen said. "What help do you need?"

"I intend to take a fruit from the boughs of Nimloth, and take it back to Rómenna. I need you to tell me the guards' schedules and help me escape."

"The guards ever surround the White Tree these days," Míriel said softly. "The best time would be now, at night. I can take you through the passages, and get you to the tree. Once you have completed your task, return to where I wait and I will help you escape from the King's House."

Isildur assented, and in silence they proceeded down to the courtyard where once Elendil courted Míriel under the moonlight, in sight of Nimloth. The Queen waited in the alcove, and it seemed as if everything was going to plan, when suddenly a great shout went up from one of the guards.

"Intruder!" he shouted. "Intruder in the courtyard of the White Tree!"

Several of the guards came upon Isildur, but he was able to fight them off, while still retaining his precious burden. At length, he escaped, running back into the alcove where he had left the Queen.

"You're injured!" she exclaimed when she saw him.

"A scratch, no more," he answered, gasping.

"This way," the Queen said, grabbing his hand and leading him down the twist and turns of the palace, deep into the halls that were rarely used, and known only by she who was once a curious little girl who wanted to explore her home. Leading him past the servants quarters, out of the House, and deep into one of the unused gardens, Míriel pointed to the wall at the back. "That fence has a door which is never locked. None know of it, it should be safe for you to leave that way. Follow the path until it hits the aqueduct. If you stay to its left, it will lead you from Armenelos." She then looked at him uncertainly. "Are you sure your injuries were not worse than a scratch? It looks serious."

"I will be fine," he said, lifting the hood of his cloak once more and limping towards the exit. Before reaching it though, he turned back and asked, "Why did you help me?"

"You asked me to," she said simply. "Anything you ever deemed to ask me, I could not refuse you."

"No other reason?" he asked tentatively, still clutching his side.

"Do you think I could ever allow any harm to come to you, _senya_, if it was in my power to prevent it?" She took a deep breath. "Besides, if anything were ever to happen to you, your father would never forgive himself."

"What do you care?" he asked. "You couldn't care less about my father."

"That's not true," Míriel said softly. "I love him, as I love you and your siblings."

"I don't believe you," he said, sounding very much like an angry little boy.

"Some things are true whether you want them to be or not," she responded softly. "Now go!"

Isildur nodded and then turned. But before he left, he whispered into the night, "He misses you. He doesn't say anything, but I know that he does."

* * *

_"…connection."_

_"… crafty…Glory's…kind…mojo…anyone…forgets…human ... stands immune."_

_"So ... Ben and Glory…same person?"_

* * *

_3281, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

The air of Armenelos was now ever thick with smoke. The Golden City, which had once been the most beautiful ever created by men, was now dwarfed by the sight of the Temple of Morgoth, which Sauron had constructed on a hill within it. The temple itself was built in a circular fashion, with a floor length of five hundred feet across, and five hundred feet high. And perched atop it was a mighty dome, which had gleamed silver in the beginning, but was now black with soot from the fire that ever burned from inside the temple.

Nimloth, that mighty tree, had been the first thing to burn on its pyres. The smoke issuing from it had covered Númenor for seven days before dissipating.

After the tree though, the things going into the fires had changed.

Soon, it was people.

Remnants of the Faithful, those still loyal to the Valar and Eru Ilúvatar, were being rounded up like the sheep of Emeriё. Sauron had convinced the people of Númenor that if they sacrificed the Faithful to Morgoth, then they would be delivered from death.

His words were poison and his claims lies, no mortal man could escape death, but this idea was growing stronger in the hearts of men. Sauron was slowly working his will.

And yet, for all this, Númenóreans were dying. Sickness seemed to rule the land, and the people of Númenor, once granted such long lives by the accounting of men, were now shorter lived than ever. The men of Númenor, who had never worn swords on their belts, were now slaying each other in the streets. And those who spoke against the King or his Lords were given swift execution. Those harbors which had once built sea vessels for exploring, now built ships of war, and the men who sailed them, once mariners, were now men of combat. Ever did they fight in Middle-earth, taking gold and the spoils of battle, and enslaving those who opposed them.

Ar-Pharazôn was a mightier tyrant than could ever have been dreamt, all falling before him. But he was not his own master, indeed, for he was in turn ruled by Sauron.

Madness had come to Númenor.

From her garden, looking out over her city, Míriel felt as though her failure could not be more complete. By ceding her throne to her cousin, she had let all this happen. Her cities were being purged and her people were turning to darkness. Nothing much was left of the old ways. It seemed there was little hope remaining.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Míriel turned to see Sauron, the Dark One, standing by her side. Though he was fair in voice and form, Míriel saw no beauty in him. Turning her back towards the view of the city below, she said, "This is my private garden, Mairon," the Queen said to him coldly, calling him by the only name he answered to. "No man is welcome here."

"It is just as well then, that I am not a man," Sauron said, lowering himself to one of the benches and stretching indolently upon it. "How well my city looks today," he said.

"Your city?" Míriel queried. "I wasn't aware that Pharazôn had surrendered the Sceptre…my mistake."

Sauron's eyes narrowed, and then took on a pleasurable look. "There was one of the Faithful fed to the fires today. A former servant of this very royal house, one Alquamírë."

Míriel cried out, and her knees nearly buckled, but she would not give Sauron the satisfaction of falling at his feet. "She is dead?"

"You should be glad," Sauron said, tauntingly. "What would you want with an accused Elf-worshipper who turned her heart away from Melkor the Great?"

The Queen silently prayed that her former maid did not suffer; wishing then that she had not forced her to remain in Forostar. Silently, she begged forgiveness of that lost soul. When her prayers were ended, Míriel looked up in to the beautiful, smirking face of Sauron. For once, she did not flinch at the light of his eyes. Instead, she looked steadily upon him and received a rare flash of foresight.

"You _will _fall, Abomination," she declared, causing the smirk to fall away from his face. "I am only sorry I will not be there to see it."

Sauron stood from the bench, walking over to the Queen. Reaching out, he took a lock of her hair, and wrapped his fingers about it. "Ah, Ar-Zimraphel, fairer than all the Queens who came before her. _Âri_ the Golden, the most beautiful woman of Númenor. What was it your lover used to call you? Ah yes, _Glorfinriel_." He pulled hard on her hair, yanking her head back. He then leaned in, so close that she could smell the stench of death on his breath. "It is so sad," he taunted, "that Elendil and his wretched father could not join your maid upon the fires. Not now, but soon I think."

Míriel glared up at him. "You wouldn't dare rouse yourself against Amandil or his son. You haven't the power, for the people love them well. That must enrage you so, to know that, for all your corruption, the men of Númenor can still appreciate goodness when they see it."

"Elendil will die," the dark Maia swore. "By my own hand."

He then stormed out of the garden, slamming the gate behind him. The Queen looked after him, fearful that what he said was true.

With a shaky breath, she reached up to touch where he had held her hair, but found that the lock he had grasped had been completely singed away.

* * *

_"Glory…turn into Ben…Ben…back into Glory."_

_"…who sees it…forgets."_

* * *

_3299, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

The King was getting old.

No one said it aloud, but it was true. Though he only possessed one hundred and seventy-eight years, which was not great for one of Elros's line, his elder days seemed to be coming hard upon him. The years of his war-making and corruption seemed to be showing in his face, and could be counted in the grey of his hair and beard.

The Queen was one year older than him, but she remained ever youthful and beautiful. None who saw her would comment on anything but the perfection of her slight form and the brightness of her grey eyes. Her hair was still golden, with no grey to mar it, and her face unlined.

Yet the beauty of the Queen, which had once pleased Ar-Pharazôn beyond all measure, now gave him no joy. In her, he saw the ruination and the ending of his line, and he hated her for it.  
Often did he ask her, "Where is my son, wife?"

And always she did answer him, "You have taken my throne and Sceptre. That must content you for present."

But he grew ever more impatient, especially as he felt his years come upon him, and Sauron whispering ever more of the Undying Lands that he only need sail West to seek.

One day, he said to the Queen, "Well, wife, I have heard that Elendil, your lover, is now a grandfather. His son Isildur now has a son of his own. It seems that Elendil's love for you was certainly no bar to doing his duty by his line."

"I wish him joy," Miriel said softly, looking at Ar-Pharazôn who was seated at the head of the banqueting table. They were alone in the room, though she might have preferred it otherwise.

"Ah, yes, beloved Elendil." The King sneered. "Even now, you still think kindly of him."

"And if I do?" Míriel asked. "You have no control over my thoughts, my King. That is one region you cannot govern."

"Ever do you bend your mind towards Elendil. You still love him, do you not?"

"I do," she said simply.

"Curse your stubborn heart! I wish you had said nothing, my barren wife," he sneered.

"Do not then ask questions you do not want the answer to, _King_," Míriel sneered back.

"Still," Pharazôn allowed. "At least it is a comfort to know that in one respect you were as much a failure to Elendil as you are to me."

"I have not the pleasure of understanding you."

"My son, wife!" Pharazôn yelled, knocking the jug of wine from the banquet table. "Where is my son? I have planted enough seeds in you to grow an orchard, and still you are childless! I know you still bleed, yet no child comes!"

Míriel glared at him with contempt. "Perhaps I am simply like the Eldar, husband. My body will not acquiesce when my heart does not follow. You have taken much from me, my throne and Sceptre included. They are all you shall ever have from me."

"You will not speak so to your King!"

"I shall speak as I choose," Míriel snapped back.

"I must live on through a son!" he yelled. "If you think I will allow Elendil and his spawn secede to the throne and to undo all my work, you are gravely mistaken!"Ar-Pharazôn screamed, spittle flying, and with no further ado, he rended her dress from neck to waist and threw her down on the banquet table, tearing at her skirts.

_Valar, save me_, she cried out in her mind.

But all the reply Míriel received was: _You chose this_.

And the cold and poisonous voice which answered her was her own.

* * *

After it was over, the Queen did up her dress as best she could, and allowed her mind to black out. She would not think on it. She would not allow herself to become further victim to the King's madness. The King's descent had been a gradual one, but Míriel now firmly believed there was nothing left of the boy she once knew. Pharazôn had completely consumed Calion—_don't think that name, don't think it, it's not him_—until it was almost hard to remember that they had once been the same person.

She knew a babe would not come; she had taken measures to prevent that. No child of Pharazôn's would spring from her womb, she promised herself that. She would never allow an innocent babe to become a weapon in Sauron's game. But perhaps, she thought bitterly, such a child would not be innocent at all. It may be that such a one would be born with horns on its head and cloven feet.

Once Pharazôn had righted himself, he strode over to the sideboard and poured himself another goblet of wine from the surplus that was sitting there. He drank deep, and then turned himself to look at his wife with disdain upon his face.

"It is clear to me now," he said coldly, "that you have failed in your duties in every way possible. I should have taken up the opportunity to run you through when I had the chance."

Miriel shuddered at the sound of his voice, but did not say anything.

"I knew then," he continued, "that you were a weak and selfish woman, more concentrated on thoughts of love than on the greatness you could achieve by my side. Still, I persisted in thinking that I could turn your mind. I believed that within you was the strength to lead and the greatness to be called my Queen. I imagined a whole line of our children, born in our image, who might take up the lordships of these lands and turn the minds of the people in the right direction."

His voice then darkened, causing her to flinch. "But the work has been all my own. You have given me no son, no heir. I have had to turn our people towards the true power and way without your help; all the while you have been cosseted and petted here in the palace. Yes," he suddenly chuckled. "I should have run you through when I had the chance."

He then drank the rest of his wine and slammed the goblet down on the table. "It is well," he said, a sudden fierceness coming into his voice. "If I cannot have a son, then I simply shall not die."


	10. Chapter Nine

_Still round the corner there may wait  
A new road or a secret gate;  
And though I oft have passed them by,  
A day will come at last when I  
Shall take the hidden paths that run  
West of the Moon, East of the Sun._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Grey Havens, The Return of the King_

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

_3309, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

"My King, I beseech you! Do not do this!" Míriel yanked hard on his arm, but merely received a blow across her face which felled her to the floor of Ar-Pharazôn's bedchamber.

"I will do what I will," the King said, his voice high. "My cause is just. Long have I felt that I was rudely, and without cause, kept from that which is mine by rights. I should be the Lord of Aman. My ancestors might have been willing to settle for this small isle, but I know that my future lies in the Undying Lands. There I shall be immortal!"

There was madness in his eyes, but the Queen was not about to give up without at least trying for reason. "If you do this, Ar-Pharazôn, you condemn us all. The one ban that the Valar put forth is that no mortal man may dare to sail West and set foot on those sacred shores. Our fathers agreed; this was their vow!"

"Great Kings do not brook denials," Ar-Pharazôn said. "They take what is their due."

"Is this you who speaks, or Sauron the Deceiver?"

The King grabbed her by the front of her dress, yanking her to her feet and backhanding her again. "You speak like a rebel and a traitor, wife."

"No, please," Míriel begged turning her face away. "I am your loyal subject and Queen. No more. I worry for you. You will bring the wrath of the Valar down upon us all."

Ar-Pharazôn laughed cruelly. "My loyal Queen indeed, who failed in all her duties. Barren as the top of the Meneltarma. Worry not for me, Zimraphel. When I return from making war upon Aman, I shall be immortal. You should set yourself in the meantime to pleasing me."

Once he released her, Míriel rushed from his chambers and ran immediately back to her own. As she hadn't since her youth, she dressed once more in male clothing, covering her hair with a cloak, disappearing into the dark corridors.

It took her ten hours to reach Rómenna on horseback, galloping as often as she could. Dawn was just peaking over the horizon when she came to the hill above the haven, looking down into the mouth of the bay. Though it had been many years since she had been there, she knew her way well to the King's House, and from there the home she was seeking was only a little further.

She tossed her reigns to the boy at the gate, giving orders that the horse be watered and cooled down, and then ascended up the front steps into the house.

Míriel was met at the door by the housekeeper, who seemed to take great offense at a visitor coming so early.

"I need to see the master of the house," Míriel said, dropping the pitch of her voice. "And his son Elendil, as well."

"Neither one would be receiving visitors at this hour, boy," the housekeeper sniffed, her face disdainful.

"I have just come from Armenelos," Míriel said, "on the matter of greatest urgency. My message is from the Queen. Summon your masters at once."

The housekeeper sniffed again, but finally acquiesced, leading the Queen into a front parlor with an admonishment not to touch anything. There she waited, until at length, she heard footsteps in the corridor. When the men came into the room, she noted with dismay that Isildur and Anárion had also been roused. There was simply nothing for it; she would speak her message, even with them there.

"My servant said you had a message for me from the Queen," Amandil spoke first. Míriel noted that the care of time had settled on his face, and he looked as if he was soon approaching his twilight years. "I bid you, discharge your office at once and let us know her mind."

Reaching up, Míriel pulled back her hood, causing all four men to gasp. "Some messages, kinsman, are to grave to be trusted to even the most loyal of couriers."

"Míriel," Amandil said, coming forward. "_Ai_! Your face! What has happened?"

The Queen imagined that her skin had become blackened by now from her husband's wrath, but she could not let that matter. Turning that cheek away, she said, "It matters not. I must speak with you urgently."

She allowed her eyes then to fall to Elendil, and saw that he was pale as he looked at her. His face was as handsome as it had always been, but now he had stateliness to him that came with time. His temples were threaded with grey, but it lent wisdom to his looks, instead of age. And the lines, which gathered at the corners of his eyes and the sides of his mouth, spoke of a life well lived. She was glad for it.

Turning back to his father, she said, "The time the Great Deceiver has been preparing for has come. Ar-Pharazôn has completely descended into madness. He is beginning production of an armada after the new year, one so great that he intends to use it to march on the Valar, themselves."

"This cannot be," Anárion gasped out. "The ban!"

"Well I know," the Queen said. "But there is little reason left in Ar-Pharazôn's mind. He sees no friends, only enemies; no councilors, only spies. The Dark One has twisted his mind until there is nothing left but insanity."

"This is heavy news, indeed," Isildur said, looking contemplative. "The Valar will not stand for this, neither will the One, I think. This will bring about all our dooms."

"Yes," the Queen said. "I fear though, that the burnings and the sacrifices will only increase in these years to come. Amandil, you must rouse all your people, all remnants of the Faithful need to be prepared to flee."

"This task I will appoint to my son," Amandil said. "The days are dark, and there is little hope for men. Yet still, I must try. I intend, by the grace of the Valar, to sail West and plead with Manwë as once our forbearer Eärendil did of old."

"Would you then commit treason?" Elendil said softly, speaking for the first time. "For though we have been accused of it often enough, all we have done until now has been in rebellion against the Dark Lord, and in service of our true Queen. By sailing West, you break the ban, father, and that is treason."

"No, I ask for mercy for men, that is all. And in any offense I commit by breaking the ban," Amandil said, "let it be on my head alone."

"Grandfather, those of your house that you leave behind will surely encounter the King's wrath because of your actions," Isildur said.

"What Amandil does must not become known," Míriel said firmly. To the elder man, she said, "You must go in secret, _Atarinya_."

"And Elendil," she turned to the man she still considered her true husband. "You must prepare other ships, here in Rómenna, and take the remaining Faithful with you and leave from these shores when the time comes. Ar-Pharazôn will be happy to see the backs of you that I think he will not hinder your departure."

"She is right, my son," Amandil said, clasping his son's arm. "Take all the things you treasure and cannot part with and hide them aboard the ships, for I think that soon we shall farewell these lands forever."

Elendil nodded.

"And here," Amandil said, removing a jewel from the finger of his left hand. "I thought to give this to you upon my death, but perhaps it is better that you have it now. My way is uncertain, and an heirloom such as this should not be lost."

Elendil held out his hand, and his father placed the ring in it. Míriel smiled when she saw what it was. For many years had the ring of Barahir graced Elendil's father's hand, and it almost seemed wrong for it to pass from him. And yet, Elendil looked ready for it. Amandil's son slid the ring on his left forefinger, and took a deep breath.

He then turned to Míriel. Heedless of the others in the room, he walked forward and gathered her into his arms. "Are you all right?" he whispered into her hair.

"I shall be well," she murmured in reply.

"But your face—"

"Shall heal," Míriel said, striving for a carefree tone. "As it has before."

Elendil's face grew thunderous. "He has hit you before?"

The Queen looked away, and pulled from his arms. "Do not concern yourself. I have grown used to it."

"_Glorfinriel_, you should not _have _to grow used to it!" Elendil said with exasperation.

"Don't you see?" she asked, turning to him and meeting his eyes. "This is my penance for what I did. Little could I have known then the true cost for my weakness, but many innocents have died because of my decisions. If I bear a bruise upon my face every now and then…well, it is no more than I deserve."

"No, do not say that," Elendil said, pulling her into his arms once more. "You had little choice, as I know I would have done the same for you." Easing back, he cupped her face and smiled. "Neither of us has ever been very good at sacrifice, have we?"

She laughed.

"It does my heart good to hear that sound," Elendil said.

She smiled at him sadly. "Does this mean you have forgiven me?"

"Of course, I longed to call you back that day in Andúnië, but my own pride prevented it," he said. "After that, I made it my business to aide you in whatever way I could."

"Aide me?" Míriel asked in some confusion.

"_Atto _has been keeping the Dark One busy," Isildur said, drawing Míriel's attention.

"What?" Míriel gasped, turning back to Elendil with horror on her face.

"The Dark Lord hates me," Elendil said. "He will look for any opportunity to strike against me." Elendil's smile took on a tender turn. "I have not spent the last forty-five years since we removed to Rómenna simply pining for you, my love."

"You could have been killed," she burst out. "Or the children!"

"I have been careful," Elendil said softly.

"He has, _yelya_," Amandil said, nodding. "The Deceiver suspects and hates Elendil because of this, but he cannot link my son to any of the rescues of the Faithful or their escapes from the Dark Lord's grasp."

"In any case," Isildur said, "the armament you spoke of shall keep him occupied for the present. We must use this opportunity to rouse all the remaining Faithful who have not already removed to Rómenna, like you said."

"I think you should not go back to Armenelos," Elendil said. "We have a ship here now, the _Númerrámar_, anchored off of Tol Uinen. We can leave now; take the children and their families and go. Set sail, and not return. We can be together again, finally."

Míriel's heart leapt at those words, but she had to be reasonable. "No," she said firmly. "It is like Isildur said. You need time to gather all the Faithful, not just the ones here in Rómenna. If we leave now, people will die, for Ar-Pharazôn's wrath will be great." She looked at him with great sorrow in her eyes. "I have learned at last, you see, not to be selfish."

"Then we must part again for now."

"This was always the way with us," Míriel said. "Our years together were but a stolen moments in the web of time. But you will have my heart, always."

"As you have mine," Elendil said. He then kissed her fiercely, ignoring the shocked look of his younger son. "When the time comes to depart, I will send for you, my love."

"We must go now," Amandil said, his voice pulling the lovers apart. "There is little time. My Queen, you must return to the palace. Isildur, you take her. Elendil, you begin preparations. Anárion, you help your father. We must all move quickly if we are to avoid certain doom."

After hurried goodbyes, all five confederates departed, going their separate ways to prepare for the dark days that were to come.

Isildur took the Queen back to Armenelos, while Elendil and Anárion departed for the far corners of the island to seek those of the Faithful that were in hiding. Of their success, little was had, but it was enough to make their quests worth the endeavor.

And as for Amandil, who left for sea immediately, the last Lord of Andúnië sailed west and was never seen or heard from again.

* * *

_3319, the Second Age, Armenelos, Númenor_

The fleet had sailed. Ar-Pharazôn had left for Aman enthroned on his flagship _Alcarondas_, accompanied by one thousand ships, all set to make war on the Valar. They sailed away from Númenor like a tide of doom. And the moment he had gone, Míriel had grabbed her cloak and slowly crept from the palace.

She wasn't going to be here to face whatever wrath the King incurred. For the past ten years, Elendil and his sons had slowly roused the last of the Faithful, finding them in hiding on all five corners of Númenor. And in the harbor of Rómenna, he had constructed nine ships to carry them all away from this forsaken place.

They had only been able to see each other once in the intervening years, and it had been nothing more than a stolen moment. Messages had been sent between them, though, and she knew that they were waiting in the harbor for her to arrive. All she had to do now was get to the ship.

Slipping out the same garden she had once taken Isildur through, she opened the door on the back fence, but instead of an empty path which she would have followed to freedom, she was confronted with five of the King's Men, a remnant of whom had stayed behind to guard the palace and keep the peace.

"Ar-Zimraphel, you have been charged with high treason, by Mairon, the Greatest of all Maia, Servant of Morgoth, and regent of Númenor. You are hereby under arrest."

She never would make it to Rómenna.

* * *

_3319, the Second Age, Meneltarma, Númenor_

The wind whipped across her face as her feet stumbled on the muddy path. The Meneltarma, Pillar of the Heavens, had ever stood in the middle of Númenor. Her entire life it had been like a silent protector which she ascended three times a year to observe the holy days.

But no more.

Smoke and fire issued from its summit, and mud and sludge were rolling and sliding down its steep hills, hindering her path to the top.

Thirty-nine days ago, Míriel had been confined in a cell.

There she had sat, with little food and water, until today, when the quakes that were rocking the land had caused the guards to abandon their posts and seek shelter. She had been convinced she would never escape that cell, that hole, and if she did it would only be to die on the pyres in the temple of Morgoth. But today, when the earth shook for an hour complete, the far wall of her cell had crumbled, revealing a sewer beyond, which she had followed until it provided a way out of the city.

Míriel had run. She had started running and she hadn't looked back.

She had no horse, no way to get to Rómenna, which was over fifty miles away, and she was certain, by then, that it wasn't an option anyway.

The sky was dark with rain and hail, which burst from the heavens intermittently. Lightening rained down from the sky, and the land shook constantly, breaking apart buildings and roads too. The hills were rolling, and the ground beneath her feet was as well, as if Númenor was a ship being tossed about the sea during a storm.

When she had reached the bottom of the Meneltarma, the work of seven hours, with bloodied feet and scrapped legs, she had begun to climb, knowing her progress would render little. The wind was too strong and the movements of the earth became ever more turbulent, and she had little strength left. It was pure fear that led her on, forcing her towards feats she could never have accomplished had it not been for the certainty of death that chased at her back.

Her labor was in vain, though she did ascend half way up the mountain.

Suddenly, all was quiet. The wind stopped blowing and the rain ceased too. The trembling ground ceased, and Míriel turned to see one of the eagles of Manwë crowning across the sky in the west. The sky was purple and pink, with orange clouds as bright as flames lighting up the sky. The sun was descending, and it was the most beautiful sunset that Míriel had ever seen.

Then, feeling as though she was being called, she turned and looked out to the East.

Though they should have been too far to see, Míriel spied nine ships, fleeing Númenor, and she knew with perfect certainty that Elendil was at one of the prows.

He would live then.

A feeling of great peace suddenly came over her, and she knew then that all would be well.

Oh, not for her.

Elendil, Isildur, Anárion, and Mírwen—_they _were the future. Eventually, their ships would land somewhere, and they would begin again. The best of Númenor, and the future of its people.

It was as it should be.

She was a relic of the elder days.

Tar-Míriel, Ar-Zimraphel, the Golden Lady of Armenelos. She had many names, and they all belonged to the past.

It was time.

Then, from the corner of her eye, Míriel turned towards the West and saw a great wave, larger than Meneltarma itself, coming forward and covering the land.

The reckoning had come.

One final prayer escaped her lips, "Uinen, Lady of the Seas, guide their ships to safety. Think not upon the crimes of Númenor, and for their sakes, and by my death, let me atone."

Tar-Míriel, the true Queen of Númenor, saw her death coming for her. It was in this moment, that all the evil that had been done with her actions and inactions, she might have been forgiven for, had she behaved like a Queen of old. But her eyes once more found the departing nine ships, and suddenly all of the peace she had found deserted her. Fear ruled her heart. A scream of denial tore from her lips and was swallowed by the wind.

Her soul and body were then lost beneath the waves as Númenor sank down into the deepest depths of the sea.

* * *

When the memories ended, Buffy was cast adrift in her own mind. The pain which the memories had been holding off until then, suddenly consumed her. Losing Dawn, strengthened by the awoken memories of losing Elendil and Númenor, multiplied her guilt and her sorrow until there was little left.

_Death was her gift_. It was clear now. Her existence, her very being caused the death and the pain of all the people that she loved and cared for. She was guilty for so much destruction, so much chaos. It would be better for her, and the world, if Buffy Summers wasn't in it.

She could just stop fighting, stop trying. Let the voices she heard trying to get through to her just wash over her, become part of the background. If she listened and floated long enough, buffeted in a sea of nothingness, eventually…she would just fade away.

So Buffy Summers slept.

And the Slayer, which wanted to fight and be free, settled back into the depths of Buffy's mind, waiting for her mistress to wake and rouse herself once more, and answer the call of battle.


	11. Chapter Ten

_Though here at journey's end I lie  
in darkness buried deep,  
beyond all towers strong and high,  
beyond all mountains steep,  
above all shadows rides the Sun  
and Stars for ever dwell:  
I will not say the Day is done,  
nor bid the Stars farewell._

_— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Tower of Cirith Ungol, The Return of the King_

* * *

**Chapter Ten **

Willow stepped into Xander's bedroom, placing and lighting a single candle on one of his bedside tables, and two on the other. She then sat down on his bed and faced the chair in which Buffy sat. The Slayer was as unresponsive as she had been since they lost Dawn, staring at nothingness. There had been some brief hope for the Scoobies earlier when Buffy had let out a scream, but she quickly relapsed into blank silence.

Taking a deep breath, Willow stared deeply into Buffy's unseeing eyes, mentally spoke the incantation, and then instantly she was standing within Buffy's mind.

Willow looked around in confusion. She was standing in a dining room, with brightly colored flowers on the center table and shelves against the wall which were full of photos and pieces of obscure art. Leaving that room, she walked through to a living room with blue walls.

Everywhere she looked there were photos, and each one was filled with people she recognized. But this was not Willow's mind, it was Buffy's, and as such the pictures were all filled with members of the Slayer's family. Willow saw Joyce and Hank, together and with a young Buffy. There were more; Joyce holding a baby, another of her pregnant. Willow smiled at the one of Buffy with Santa Claus. In others, she could see pictures of Buffy's aunts Lolly and Arlene, and even pictures of Buffy and her cousin Celia.

As Willow circled around the sofa, she heard from behind her, "Hi, Willow."

The witch turned, and saw before her a little girl of about six. She was blond, with her hair in pigtails and wearing a dress with sunflowers on it. She had a doll in her arms. Willow recognized her immediately and smiled.

"Hello, Buffy."

* * *

"What are you doing here?" the young Buffy asked, cradling her doll.

"Actually, I'm looking for you," Willow said to her.

"Do you like dolls?"

"Buffy," Willow asked, hoping her friend was listening from inside her younger self. "What are you doing here?"

"I like it here," the little Buffy said.

"But," Willow began, kneeling down to her level. "You know we need you. You have to come out."

"Why?" Buffy asked, looking at Willow with complete innocence and trust.

"To be with your friends," Willow said.

"It's a big day for me," Buffy said, looking over to the door. And, as if she willed it, the door opened.

"Hello!"

"Mommy, Daddy!" Buffy called, handing Willow her doll and running towards the door. "You're back! You're back!"

Willow turned to see Mrs. Summers, and Buffy's father, whom Willow had only met once. Mrs. Summers was holding a baby, wrapped in a yellow blanket.

"Hello, Buffy," her mother said.

"How's my girl?" her father added.

Buffy beamed up at him.

"Are you ready to meet your new baby sister?" Mrs. Summers asked.

Buffy suddenly pouted, crossing her arms and backing away from her parents.

"Oh, come on now, Buffy," her dad said. "She's nothing to be afraid of."

"Who's afraid?" Little Buffy said petulantly.

"Don't you want to be the big sister?" her mom asked.

"No, I want to be the baby," Buffy declared.

"Buffy."

"You're gonna pay more attention to her and forget all about me!"

Her mother knelt down beside Buffy, showing her the precious burden she carried. Little Buffy turned to Willow and made a face. "Doesn't she look funny? Like a wrinkly old grandpa."

Buffy then turned back to her mother who handed her the baby. "Like this," Joyce said. "Okay, support the head, there you go! We're calling her Dawn."

"Dawn," Willow repeated, suddenly understanding.

Buffy was smiling, looking down at the baby and then up at her mother. "I could be the one to look after her sometimes, if you need a helper. Mom? Can I take care of her?"

"Yes, Buffy," her mother said, stroking her hair. "You can take care of her."

The sound of shoes clacking on the floor drew Willow's attention from the domestic scene, and suddenly she was in the Magic Box, watching a grown up Buffy place a book on the shelf. When she was done, she turned and walked back to the table.

When Buffy walked past her, Willow blinked and then suddenly she was in front of a fire in the middle of the desert at night.

"Okay," Willow said, tilting her head in confusion.

* * *

Looking to her right, Willow saw Buffy sitting on a rock and looking across the fire. Following Buffy's gaze, Willow gasped. "Hey, I know you. You're, you're the first original Slayer who tried killing us all in our dreams." Willow paused, then realized this couldn't get any weirder. So, she shrugged. "How've you been?"

"Death is your gift," the First Slayer said.

"Death is my gift?" Buffy repeated, confused.

"Wait, death is her what?" Willow asked.

"Death is your gift," the First Slayer repeated.

Willow suddenly found herself back in the Magic Box, watching Buffy file that book again. This time, Buffy paused when she put the book back, as if lost in thought.

The scene changed again, and now Willow was in the upstairs of the Summers home following Buffy again down the hallway towards her mother's bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Willow asked. "I can't keep following you around like this, Buffy. We have to go!"

Buffy opened the door and walked inside. Following her, Willow said, "You have to talk to...me."

Her voice trailed off. Willow gazed at the floor where, with the oddness of dreams, Mrs. Summer's tombstone was there, a mound of dirt in front of it, surrounded by grass, just like it would have been in the graveyard.

Walking over to stand by Buffy, Willow said softly, "I'm sorry."

Buffy shook her head. "Don't be. Death is my gift."

"Yeah," Willow said. "I keep hearing that, but I'm not exactly sure what it means."  
Buffy turned and left the room, calling over her shoulder, "It's really not that complicated."

The two women walked through a door, revealing Dawn's bedroom. Buffy's sister was lying on the bed, struggling to breathe as she cried.

"Not for you maybe," Willow said.

Buffy sat down on the bed and then looked up at Willow. "It's what I do. I mean, come on," Buffy said. "You've known me ... for how long? Didn't you ever see the truth about me? It's what I'm here for. It's all I am." Buffy then picked up a pillow and pressed over Dawn's face, smothering her. The younger girl began to struggle.

"Buffy, stop! No!" Willow protested in shock. "God, no!"

Buffy looked at Willow blankly, as if she couldn't understand why the witch was upset. "What? I keep telling you, Will. I figured it out. Death is my gift. It's what I am born for, over and over." Buffy looked down at the pillow she was holding over Dawn's face with a smile. "She thinks it's her, but she's wrong. It's me; it was always me. The Destroyer of Worlds."

Dawn suddenly stopped struggling. Her arms and legs fell limply onto the bed.

Willow watched in horror.

* * *

They were in the hallway of the house again. Willow hurried around Buffy and put her hand on the Slayer's arm. "You have to stop doing this."

"Doing what?" Buffy asked blankly.

"Killing Dawn," Willow said.

"Why?"

"Because this never happened," the witch said. "You never killed your sister."

"Will, I did this."

"In your imagination! None of this is real! You're stuck in some kind of loop!" Willow cried.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Buffy said. "'Scuse me."

* * *

"No, Buffy, leave Dawn alone. What is this?" Willow asked, chasing after the Slayer.

"My gift," Buffy said, opening a door and leading them back into the magic shop.

"I'm not talking about this," Willow said, "I'm talking about…this." They were once again watching the scene of Buffy putting a book on the shelf. "Right here, it happened. I know it's something small, but... it's something. What?"

"Don't go there, Will," Buffy said, looking pained.

"I'm not!" Willow cried. "You're the one who keeps dragging me back here! And you wouldn't be doing that if you weren't trying to show me something. Buffy, come on. It's your brain. Just tell me."

Buffy and Willow looked over and saw the other Buffy once again putting a book on the shelf.

"What happened here?" Willow asked.

"This was when I quit, Will," Buffy said quietly.

"You did?"

"Just for a second," Buffy affirmed. "I remember. I was in the magic shop. I put a book back for Giles. Nothing special about it. And then it hit me."

"What hit you?" Willow asked.

"I can't beat Glory," Buffy said. "Glory's going to win."

"You can't know that," the witch said.

"I didn't just know it," Buffy responded. "I felt it. Glory will beat me. And in that second of knowing it, Will...I wanted it to happen."

"Why?" Willow asked, not understanding.

"I wanted it to be over," Buffy said, on the verge of tears. "This is, all of this, it's too much for me. Being here, doing this, preparing for death again…expecting the dance, waiting for the throes. I just wanted it over." Buffy paused, then looked at the redhead. "If Glory wins, then Dawn dies. And I would grieve. People would feel sorry for me, but it would be over. And I imagined what a relief it would be, because there would be no one left holding me here. I could rest then, and maybe, if I was forgiven, I could go home."

The Buffy at the bookshelf once again put away the book. And then the Buffy next to her turned to Willow and said, "I killed Dawn."

Willow frowned. "Is that what you think?"

"My thinking it made it happen," Buffy confirmed. "Some part of me wanted it. I was tired, so tired of all the death and the destruction and the dying. I was tired of losing the people that I love by them leaving, or being torn from me, or them dying. This is why I am to blame. In the moment Glory took Dawn, I know I could have done something better, but I didn't. I was off by some fraction of a second. And this is why...I killed my sister."

Willow frowned again. "I think Spike was right back at the gas station. Snap out of it!"

Buffy looked at Willow in surprise. "What?"

"All this, it has a name," Willow said. "It's called guilt. It's a feeling, and it's important. But it's not more than that, Buffy. You've carried the weight of the world on your shoulders since high school. And I know you didn't ask for this, but you do it every day. And so, you wanted out for one second. So what?"

"I got Dawn killed, I got everyone killed," Buffy said softly. "It's what I do. Death is my gift."

"Hello! Your sister? Not dead yet! And neither are the rest of us. But Dawn will be if you stay locked inside here and never come back to us."

"But what if I can't?" Buffy asked, tremulously.

"Then I guess you're right," Willow said, turning and walking towards the entrance of the Magic Box. "And you did kill your sister."

"Wait!" Buffy called desperately. "Where are you going?"

"Where you're needed. Are you coming?"

Instantly, the two women were suddenly back in Xander's bedroom and out of the dreamscape. Buffy twitched in surprise, trying vainly to adjust to the reality of being back in her own dimension and in her own body. Looking around, she saw Willow looking at her with a sympathetic expression, and suddenly the remembrance of all that had passed came back to her.

The pain of losing Dawn, and all the memories belonging to another that she now carried, along with the weight of the world, which settled back on her shoulders, all coalesced in her mind and she began to sob.

Willow fell to her knees in front of Buffy and, with the sympathy of a true friend, gave her a shoulder to cry on.

* * *

When Buffy emerged from the room with Willow, Anya looked up and smiled. "Good! You're not crazy in your mind anymore."

"Yeah, crazy-free, that's me," Buffy responded.

"We should go," Willow said, looking at the clock and then back at the Slayer.

"Big Day," Tara said. "Big, big day."

"Come on baby," Willow said to Tara.

"I'm glad you're back," Anya said, "Xander thought you had brain damage, and then Spike smacked you across the face which probably didn't help."

Buffy forced a smile. "Thanks, Anya."

"Sure," she said as they left the apartment. "With the world about to end and all, I am just glad you are here to give us a little hope."

"Yeah, hope," Buffy said softly. "That's what I'm here for."

With each step they took towards the Magic Box, towards Glory, towards the coming battle, Buffy felt, for all the world, as if she was climbing up the Meneltarma with the water swirling around her ankles.

* * *

When she entered the magic shop, Buffy heard Giles call. "Buffy? She's back."

The Slayer walked down the steps, followed by Willow, Anya, and Tara to see Spike and Xander sitting at the table, with Giles standing by the tea caddy.

"You're okay?" Xander asked, looking concerned.

"Yeah. I'm okay. Hear you found the ritual text."

"Uh, something like that, yes," Giles said.

"Did you know that…Ben is Glory?" Xander asked, looking proud of himself.

"So I'm told," Buffy said briskly, all business. "What do we know?"

Willow, Anya, and Tara sat down and they all turned to Giles. "Um," he began, "well, according to these scrolls, it's possible for Glory to be stopped. I'm afraid it's, um ... well, Buffy, I've read these things very carefully and there's not much margin for error. You understand what I'm saying?"

Buffy looked at him like he was an idiot. "Might help if you actually said it."

Giles smiled, nodding, putting down his tea and removing his glasses. "Glory plans to open a dimensional portal by way of a ritual bloodletting."

"Dawn's blood," Buffy said, understanding.

"Yes," Giles agreed. "Once the blood is shed at a certain time and place the fabric which separates all realities will be ripped apart. Dimensions will pour into one another, uh, with no barriers to stop them. Reality as we know it will be destroyed, and chaos will reign on earth."

"So how do we stop it?" Buffy asked.

Giles swallowed. "The portal will only close once the blood is stopped, and the only way for that to happen is…" He paused not looking at the slayer, but he could feel her eyes on him. Finally he met her gaze and said, "Buffy, the only way is to kill Dawn."

* * *

The vampire who had interrupted the group discussion was now dust in the wind. In truth, Buffy had almost been relieved when her extra-sensitive hearing had picked up the sounds of a chase. Anything to get her out of the Magic Box and away from Giles and his pronouncement.

_Buffy, the only way is to kill Dawn._

But this vamp had been something of a surprise. She would of thought he was a newbie but for the fact that he was so strong. He had obviously lived for years as a bloodsucker and honed his strength. And yet, he didn't know her. Buffy had been so used to all the vampires either fearing her, or actively trying to kill her. "Wow," she said softly. "Been a long while since I met one who didn't know me."

Turning, she looked at the kid the vampire had decided to make his midnight snack. "You should get home." She then headed for the backdoor of the shop.

"H-how'd you do that?" the boy asked, sounding shaken.

"It's what I do," Buffy said, not stopping.

_Death is your gift._

"But you're ... you're just a girl," the kid said.

Buffy paused in the doorway. "That's what _I _keep saying."

* * *

Buffy walked back into the Magic Box where everyone was still assembled around the table, waiting for her.

"Something goin' on out back?" Xander asked.

"Vampire," was all she said. Turning to Giles, she asked, "Anything?"

"Nothing you want to hear," he said, rubbing his lips with his thumb. "The ritual is, uh…"

"Explain it again," Buffy said suddenly.

"There's nothing new to—"

"Go through it again," she bit out.

Giles slowly removed his glasses. "The Key was living energy," he said on a sigh. "It needed to be channeled, poured into a specific place at a specific time. The energy would flow into that spot; the walls between the dimensions break down. It stops; the energy's used up; the walls come back up. Glory uses that time to get back into her own dimension, not caring that all manner of hell will be unleashed on earth in the meantime."

"Um, but only for a little while, right?" Anya asked nervously. "The walls come back up, uh, no, no more hell?"

"That's only if the energy is stopped," Willow commented. "And now the Key is human…is Dawn…"

Giles put on his glasses as he looked down and read, "'The blood flows, the gates will open. The gates will close when it flows no more.' When Dawn is dead."

"I have places to be!" Tara yelled out, startling the room.

"Why blood?" Xander asked, trying to pull the attention away from the fact that one of their friends had been driven crazy by Glory. "Why Dawn's blood? I mean, why couldn't it be like a, a lymph ritual?"

"'Cause it's always got to be blood," Spike said, drawing Buffy's gaze.

"We're not actually discussing dinner right now," Xander said sarcastically.

"Blood is life, lack-brain. Why do you think we eat it? It's what keeps you going. Makes you warm. Makes you hard. Makes you other than dead. Course it's her blood," the vampire finished, taking a drag off of his cigarette.

"Pretty simple math here," Buffy jumped in. "We stop Glory before she can start the ritual. We still have a couple of hours, right?"

"If my calculations are right," Giles said. "But Buffy—"

"I don't wanna hear it," the Slayer said, turning away.

"I understand that—"

"No!" Buffy snapped. "No, you don't understand. We are _not _talking about this."

Giles jumped up from the table and yelled, "Yes, we bloody well are!" All eyes were drawn to him, causing the Watcher to lower his voice. "If Glory begins the ritual…if we can't stop her…"

"Come on. Say it," Buffy taunted. "We're _bloody well_ talking about this. Tell me to kill my sister."

"She's not your sister," Giles whispered.

Buffy felt as though she had just been punched. "No. She's not," she allowed. Buffy tried think of a way that Dawn felt like her twin and sister and daughter, all rolled into one. The monks had been clever. They had known that someone who felt like Mírwen…Buffy shook her head; she couldn't think about that now. To Giles, she said, "She's more than that. She's me. The monks made her out of me. I hold her and I feel closer to her than…It's not just the memories they built. It's physical. Dawn is a part of me. The only part that I—"

"We'll solve this," Willow said. "We will. Don't have another coma, okay?"

"If the ritual starts," Giles cut in, "then every living creature in this and every other dimension imaginable will suffer unbearable torment and death—including Dawn."

"Then the last thing she'll see is me protecting her," Buffy said firmly.

Giles sighed. "You'll fail. You'll die. We all will."

"I'm sorry," Buffy said. "I love you all, but I'm sorry."

* * *

A loose plan had formed. It mostly revolved around distracting Glory until the time the ritual could be preformed was past, the dagonsphere, and a troll hammer, but Buffy was trying not to feel overwhelmed. It was easier to simply channel her energy, as she was doing now, imagining the punching back in the training room was Glory.

Violence was simple, something she could control. It wouldn't overwhelm her, like her emotions.

"You sure you're not going to tire yourself out?" Giles asked, his voice coming from the doorway.

"I'm sure."

"We're still working on ideas. Time's short, but, uh, best leave it to the last moment. If we go in too early and she takes us out, no chance of getting her to miss her window."

"Then we wait," the Slayer said succinctly.

"I imagine you hate me right now," Giles commented idly, as if he was talking about the weather.

Buffy didn't answer him, mostly because there was nothing she could really say. She was too numb to feel hate, too tired to feel anger.

"I love Dawn," he said.

"I know," she responded softly, turning to look at him.

"But I've sworn to protect this sorry world," he said, "and sometimes that means saying and doing, what other people can't. What they shouldn't have to."

"You try and hurt her, and you know I'll stop you," the Slayer warned.

"I know."

Buffy walked over to the sofa on the far wall, and sat. Giles joined her. "This is how many apocalypses for us now?" she asked.

"Oh, uh, well, six, at least. Feels like a hundred."

"I've always stopped them," she said. "Always won."

"Yes."

"I sacrificed Angel to save the world," Buffy said. "I loved him so much. He reminded me so much of…but I knew, what was right. I don't have that any more. I _don't _understand. I don't know how to live in this world if these are the choices." Buffy took a deep breath. Not even noticing, she was unconsciously distancing herself from the dimension she had spent the last twenty years in. "If everything just gets stripped away. I don't see the point. I just wish that…I just wish my mom was here."

Buffy stood, walking towards the door. She paused then, turning back to her Watcher. _Death is your gift_. The words she heard in the desert ran through her head once more, and she realized in that moment that there was no deeper meaning. There was no great epiphany that was going to come, and she wasn't going to learn some lesson. The Guide hadn't been taking in riddles, she had just been wishing for him to be.

Turning back to Giles, she said, "The Spirit Guide told me that death is my gift. Guess that means a Slayer really is just a killer after all."

"I think you're wrong about that," her Watcher replied, shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter," she said. "If Dawn dies, I'm done with it. I'm quitting."

She walked out, leaving Giles sitting alone on the sofa.

* * *

"Buffy," Giles said, calling her over. "Xander and Anya had an idea."

"Did you find the dagonsphere?" Buffy asked.

"Yeah," Xander said, "but we found something else too. The robot Spike had made."

"You could use her as a diversion, see?" Anya said. "That way if you get crushed into a bloody pulp, there's still a possibility of distracting Glory."

"Ahn—" Xander began.

"No," Buffy interrupted. "No, no, that's good. That could be pivotal. Thank you guys."

"Well," Giles said, "You're gonna need some—"

"Way ahead of you," Buffy said, thinking of the extra clothes she needed. "We have time?"

"Yes, if you hurry," Giles replied.

"Okay. I'll grab some weapons too," Buffy said.

"I'm looking for something in a broadsword," Xander said.

Xander and Spike continued to bicker, but Buffy tuned them out as she examined the dagonsphere. The familiar feeling of magic washed over her, and then she pushed it away. She needed to prepare. "Spike, shut your mouth, come with me."

* * *

They were quiet on the walk to her house, the Slayer disinclined to talk to anyone, let alone Spike. He had tried when they got to the house, and Buffy got his promise that he would protect Dawn, but everything after that she forcibly pushed away.

In a way, she felt bad. She _couldn't _love Spike. It wasn't that she didn't want to try, though she didn't, but it was more like there was no room left in her heart. She had been changing, unknowingly. Some changes are slow, unnoticeable…others are quick and obvious. This was a combination of the two.

What she wanted, the things she needed from a lover…these had changed. No more did she want to be a normal girlfriend with a normal boyfriend, but she also didn't want to return to the drama that was Buffy and Angel. She wanted someone who understood her, who saw her clearly. Sadly for Buffy, the only person who fit that bill was a certain blonde vampire with no soul.

Stepping into her room, Buffy quickly grabbed her grey slacks and a white sweater, stuffing them in her black knapsack. She removed the bracelet she was wearing too, opening up her jewelry box and putting it away. Then, she paused.

There, on the top of the box, in the ring section, was a tarnished silver ring that she hadn't worn in years. It had been a gift.

A gift from her mother.

Once, when Buffy was in high school in LA, before the Slayer, her mother had gone down to Laguna in Orange County to one of their summer arts festivals to look for new talent. Buffy, being only fourteen, had been dragged along, while Dawn had remained at home with their dad. After going through Art-A-Fair and Pageant of the Masters, Joyce had taken Buffy to the Sawdust Festival, which wasn't like the previous two places at all. It was funkier, with a mix of homemade things and art.

One of the stands had been jewelry, and Buffy's eye had caught on a simple silver ring. It had Celtic markings on it, and Buffy had been transfixed by it, so much so that her mother had bought it surreptitiously and given it to her for Christmas.

Seeing it now, knowing what she now knew, she could tell what her younger self had been struck by.

The markings looked Númenórean.

Flashes from her life suddenly appeared before her life, and she saw things in a totally new way.

How when she had been called a princess, it had felt right, like nothing else before.

_You are always thinking of others before yourself, _Ampata said_, You remind me of someone from very long ago: the Inca Princess._

_Cool! A princess, _Buffy replied_._

Buffy had always been afraid of water, instinctively somehow. She had always feared it, and hadn't wanted to take swimming lessons when her mother insisted. It only amplified when she had drowned by the Master's hand.

_I hate it when they drown me._

And she had always felt wrong, older and heavier than her friends. All this time, she had thought that was the slayer talking. She thought it was the horrible, lurking truth that she was different than others and therefore more mature than them. It had felt like a punishment.

_Just how old is your soul?_

So much suddenly made sense to her. All her life, the way she had always felt different, apart. And the dreams, they hadn't been dreams at all…they were memories. She hadn't been given a window into a girl's life in another dimension, _she had been that girl_. She wasn't just relating to Míriel's pain, she had experienced it. That's where she was from; that's where she was truly born.

She had been reincarnated.

Before Buffy, she had been Míriel. She had been a daughter of a King, and then a Queen who was overthrown. She had loved only one man, Elendil, and it was him that she had been subconsciously comparing all her boyfriends to. Buffy understood so much now, about who she was and what happened.

She was sent here for punishment. The Slayer didn't know how she instinctively knew that, but she did. She was supposed to learn something. The irony, Buffy thought, was that she had made a mess of this life, just like her previous one. Sure, she hadn't doomed the entire island by making a bad decision, but…she _couldn't _let Dawn die. Every feeling inside her revolted at the thought.

Yeah, she hadn't doomed an entire race of people but…give her time.

Tonight would decide many things, and Buffy knew that she wouldn't live to see the end of it.

She was going to die, and the world with her.

But as long as Dawn survived, the rest didn't matter.

Guess she hadn't learned from her punishment after all.

* * *

"We on schedule?" Buffy asked, as she and Spike reentered the Magic Box carrying weapons.

"Yes, it's time," Giles said.

Turning to Willow, Buffy said, "Will?"

The red-headed witch nodded, walking over to Tara who was staring off at nothing. "Tara, baby? Is there somewhere you should be?"

"They held me down," Tara said.

"No one's holding you," Willow said soothingly. "It's the big day, right? Do you wanna go?"

Tara nodded, walking out of the shop. When she passed by Giles, she pointed at him and said,  
"You're a killer! This is all set down." She then looked over at Buffy and said, "Home isn't waiting for you…it sunk beneath the waves." She then walked out.

Blinking back tears, Buffy shook it off and said to Willow, "Stay close, but don't crowd her. We'll follow in a minute. Everybody knows their jobs. Remember, the ritual starts, we all die. And I'll kill anyone who comes near Dawn."

The Slayer then turned and went to exchange clothes with the robot.

Home wasn't waiting for her…because of her. All the people she belonged with were dead, and it was time for her to join them.

* * *

The battle was in full progress. Buffy had stayed hidden for as long as she could, covertly taking out some of Glory's minions, but careful not to draw the god's attention in her direction. The fight ensued, until Buffy saw that the robot was about to be taken out, and then she moved into position.

"I'm feeling a little better." Buffy heard Glory say as the Slayer moved into position. "And now? I'm a little bored."

"Oh, I'm sorry," the robot said. "Cause you're about—"

Glory kicked the robot in the face, causing her head to go flying off and exposing the wires of her neck which sparked and crackled. "Hey, wow, the Slayer's a robot." Glory looked around in confusion. "Did everybody else know the Slayer was a robot?"

"Glory?" Buffy called with some derision. The god turned, and Buffy undercut her with the troll Olaf's enchanted hammer. "You're not the brightest god in the heavens, are you?"

Buffy then heard Dawn screaming her name, and she ran for the tower. Leaping over a pile of bricks, and up onto the stairs, the Slayer threw one of Glory's minions from her path and raced up the stairwell.

Once she neared the top, Glory suddenly jumped in front of her and smacked her. Buffy returned fire with the hammer, and was pushed into the scaffolding by Glory. After exchanging blows, the enchanted hammer went flying from Buffy's hands and tangled in one of the chains hanging from the upper level. When Buffy tried to reach for it, Glory grabbed another piece of chain and used it to swing around the side, knocking Buffy aside. Buffy fell, but quickly regrouped.

She and the god went back and forth, neither of the gaining ground, both trying to take their opponent out. When Dawn called for her again, Buffy raced to try to climb up the outer scaffolding once more, but Glory hindered her, making her slide back down.

Buffy used a momentary distraction to kick Glory in the face before running and retrieving the hammer. She smacked the god in the face with it twice, before Glory hit her back. The Slayer suddenly lost her balance and began to fall from the tower, losing the hammer once more, but in the last second she grabbed the god and pulled her down with her.

The Slayer and the god hit the pavement below, the fall and impact not really hurting either of them Buffy stood, watching Glory do the same. The god had landed a few feet from her, next to a wall. Buffy hid the smile that was teasing at her lips.

"You lost your hammer, sweet cheeks," Glory said, looking victorious. "What are you gonna hit me with now?"

Buffy looked at the wall, causing Glory to turn her head. Suddenly, a huge wrecking ball came through it, knocking the god through a second wall and into another room. "Whatever's handy," the Slayer snarked.

Buffy then ran, grabbed the hammer, and was back before Glory even got up. Once she did, Buffy quickly hit the god in the face again with Olaf's enchanted weapon, giving her no time to regroup. The blows kept coming and soon, blood was dripping from Glory's face and she looked weaker and weaker.

Her face twisted in anguish as she looked at the Slayer. "You're just a mortal. You couldn't understand my pain."

"Then I'll just have to settle for causing it," Buffy said, smacking Glory with the hammer once more.

"You can't kill me," Glory said in disbelief.

"No, but my arm's not even tired yet," Buffy replied, taking another successful swing.

Glory fell to her knees. "Stop it."

"You're a god," Buffy snarled, hitting her with the hammer again and sending Glory flying deeper into the room. "Make it stop."

Buffy walked over to Glory and began to hit her over and over again. The sound of bones breaking and cartilage crunching filled the air, until Glory couldn't hold her form any more. She morphed back into Ben, causing Buffy to stop hitting.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Tell her it's over," the Slayer said. "She missed her shot. She goes. She ever, ever comes near me and mine again…"

"We won't," he gasped. "I swear."

Buffy dropped the hammer and left the room.

She had to get to Dawn.

* * *

Buffy ran as fast as she could, pushing past the crazy people at the base of the tower and climbing up one of the sides. It felt like forever until she was at the top, but it was only seconds. Seconds that would change the course of her destiny.

When she reached the final level, she gasped when she saw her sister wasn't alone. There was a man with her, and the Slayer sensed easily that he was a demon. "Dawn."

Her sister saw her then and cried out, "Buffy!"

The demon whirled around and smirked at the Slayer. "This should be interesting."

Buffy gave him no thought, simply pushing him off the side of the scaffold. She then rushed to her sister's side, releasing her from her bindings. Dawn was crying, and Buffy could see that her sides had been cut. A feeling of dread grew within her, but she pushed it away. "Here," she said.

"Buffy, it hurts," Dawn said.

"I got it. Come here. You're gonna be okay," Buffy said, and helped her sister off the edge of the platform back towards the tower ladders.

Dawn suddenly stopped and turned to Buffy. The Slayer looked at her in confusion and ordered, "Go!"

"Buffy," the younger girl said tentatively. "It started."

The Slayer turned. She could see that the air under where Dawn had been standing was no lit up, and a portal was beginning to open. Lightening was crackling from it, striking down in the direction of the town.

"I'm sorry," Dawn said.

"It's doesn't matter," Buffy replied, and that was the truth. She had prepared for this moment. They were all going to die. She had known it. Dawn suddenly tried to run past her, but Buffy stopped her. "What are you doing?" she demanded.

"I have to jump," Dawn said. "The energy."

"It'll kill you," Buffy said softly.

"I know," her sister replied. "Buffy, I know about the ritual. I have to stop it."

"No," Buffy said, shaking her head. She couldn't lose Dawn, she just couldn't!

The tower began to shift beneath them and Dawn cried, "I have to. Look at what's happening." More lightening crackled, and both sisters looked up to see a dragon flying by them. "Buffy, you have to let me go. Blood starts it, and until the blood stops flowing, it'll never stop. You _know _you have to let me. It has to have the blood."

And then she knew.

_'Cause it's always got to be blood._

_It's Summers blood. It's just like mine._

_She's me. The monks made her out of me._

_Death is your gift._

_Death..._

_...is your gift._

Everything had become clear. Giles had been right. She _had _misunderstood. Death wasn't who she was; she was more than just a killer. Her whole life it seemed she had been walking towards this moment, once again facing death from on high.

Then, she turned. And, just like the beautiful setting sun that Buffy had seen before Númenor sank, this time she saw it rising instead.

The Spirit Guide had told her she had to forgive and embrace the pain, and she was right. Buffy had to forgive herself for what happened on Númenor. For the things she had done, and failed to do. All of it. She had to let it go. It would never be over if she didn't.

So Buffy did the one thing she hadn't thought possible. She forgave herself.

The sky was growing lighter, and the portal was widening. But none of that mattered. Buffy watched the sun begin to ascend and she felt peace. Yet, it wasn't the fragile peace that she had attained on the Meneltarma, this was a lasting peace. Because, though she was the same person, something was different this time.

This time she was choosing her end.

Death was her gift. It was her gift to Dawn, to the world, but also to herself.

The Númenor Kings and Queens of old had ruled until their heirs were prepared, then they had passed the Sceptre on and laid down, passing into death. The island had lost that eventually, the kings learning to fear that which was natural and a part of life. But even she, as Míriel, in her last moment before the wave had taken her, had feared what was to come.

Buffy had no fear left within her.

Everything was ready. Her friends had been taught all they could learn about how to defend themselves. Willow would step forward and lead the group; she was strong. Strong enough to take over the mantle of leadership. Xander and Anya would be okay, they'd have each other. Giles would finally be able to return to England and carve out a life for himself as someone other than her Watcher. And Dawn…

Dawn would live.

It was her gift.

And this was Buffy's.

She was ready.

Turning back to her sister, the look on her face must have given her away. Dawn gasped. "Buffy, no!"

"Dawnie," Buffy said gently. "I have to."

"No!"

"Listen to me," Buffy implored. "Please, there's not a lot of time, listen. I love you. I will _always _love you. But this is the work that I have to do. Tell Giles…tell Giles I figured it out. And, I'm okay. And give my love to my friends. You have to take care of them now. You have to take care of each other. You have to be strong. Dawn, the hardest thing in this world…is to live in it. Be brave. Live. For me."

Buffy then kissed her sister's cheek and took one final look at her face. Dawn was sobbing, but Buffy knew that she would be all right. One day she would understand. One day she would know that Buffy had done this so she might live, and on that day she would forgive her sister for leaving.

Buffy then turned and ran, diving into the portal.

When the energy connected with her body, she felt pain more intense than anything she could have imagined. It ripped through every molecule, burning as it went and leaving pain in its wake. And yet, Buffy had no fear. She accepted it. This was her gift, and for that it was beautiful. She hadn't been abandoned here in this world, she had been sent here. Sent here for this moment, to understand, to learn, and the Slayer knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that it was time let go.

_Well done, Tar-Míriel_, a melodic voice whispered in her mind, and then it was gone.

The energy then concentrated, destroying the skin and meat and bones that held the Slayer together, and then evaporated, taking the remains of Buffy with it.

There was no body left to bury.

Buffy Summers was completely consumed by the portal, leaving the world of vampires and demons behind. Though her family and friends would mourn and try in vain to bring her back, she was gone. Her time as Slayer on Earth had ended, and now it was time for others to take up her cause.

But this is not the end of her story.

A soul as great and a spirit as beautiful as Buffy's did not die there that night.

It went home.


End file.
